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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253648">Beautiful Ghosts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_tinker/pseuds/just_another_tinker'>just_another_tinker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Booker is a sad boy, Booker is a smart boy, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Needs a Hug, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Whump, Character Death, Character Study, Death, Depressed Booker | Sebastien le Livre, F/F, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Healing, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, M/M, One Big Happy Family, POV Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Sad with a Happy Ending, Team Bonding, Team as Family</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:00:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253648</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_tinker/pseuds/just_another_tinker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone were to ask Booker why he chased Death, he would tell them. It wouldn’t be an answer anyone expected. </p><p>If they asked Joe, he’d say it was because Booker was selfish. If Nicky, he’d say that Booker was naïve. If Andy was asked, she’d probably just laugh and say that Booker was bored. </p><p>But if anyone bothered to ask Booker? He would say that the others weren’t wrong, but they weren’t exactly right, either. Booker would give chase, over and over again, without fail. Because Death gave him the one thing he valued above all others: quiet.</p><hr/><p>Booker is incredibly gifted and has an extreme case of hyperthymesia. He doesn’t remember everything. But what he does remember, he just doesn’t forget.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia &amp; Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>177</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Beautiful Ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hyperthymesia is an ability that allows people to remember nearly every event of their life with great precision. Hyperthymesia is rare, with research identifying only a small number of people with the ability. Studies on hyperthymesia are ongoing, as scientists attempt to understand how the brain processes memories.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He fell from a tree when he was ten years old. He’d only climbed the tree because he was told that he couldn’t by his brother. That was where his brother was wrong. He’d climbed it easily, his long limbs scrambling up the branches effortlessly. What Sébastien couldn’t do was climb down. </p><p>Henri told him later about the sound his skull had made when he landed on the cobbled fence. He explained how a spray of red had arced through the air, staining his clothes. He told him how silent he was after he fell. </p><p>Sébastien didn’t need his brother to tell him what had happened. He <em> did </em> feel the need to correct him, however - his blood hadn't shot through the air, it had pooled on the stones, under his head. He had made a noise, a curious one as he gripped his skull with one bloodied hand, the other reaching for his brother. Sébastien also informed his brother that he knew that Henri had wet himself in fear, the smell of urine strong in the air before he fell unconscious. </p><p>His brother called him a liar even though he wasn’t. Their parents ignored both of their whines, and the only reason Sébastien avoided the swing of his mother’s hand across the back of his head was because he was still bleeding from that morning. </p><p>Now, at forty-two years old - <em> or, one hundred and ninety seven years old, depends on who he asked - </em>feeling his skull reknit after being on the receiving end of a blast in Laos, he can still smell his brother’s fear. He’s reminded of it every time he gets a head injury. </p><p>Falling from that tree had been a turning point for him. It was the first time that he could recall everything almost perfectly. It was the first time that he could recall everything almost perfectly and be able to do it ever since. </p><p>*********</p><p>Things change, after his fall. <em> He </em>changes. While Sébastien notices immediately, it takes a while for everyone else to catch up. The problems start when they do catch up. A fact that would be repeated quite frequently over his lifetime. </p><p>*********</p><p>Schooling is easy, Sébastien finds. Easier than it had been before he fell. Boring, now. The lessons plaster themselves to his brain like honey. As things get easier, he gets faster. And as he gets faster, it seems as if the world around him slows. It frustrates him, how slow it is - how slow everyone else is - and he frustrates everyone else in turn. </p><p>He gets noticed a lot, but Sébastien finds that he likes it. With someone with his roots, he shouldn’t be spared a second glance. But people whisper about him as he passes, and he knows what they’re saying. How he’s different, how he’s better. How he’s extraordinary. </p><p>*********</p><p>His father is enamored by his ability. So much so, that it is the only thing he talks to Sébastien about. He likes to tote him around the city, showing him off. Telling his friends and rivals alike about how smart Sébastien is, and how much smarter he will become. How he will elevate the family to see greener pastures.   </p><p>Sébastien preens under his father’s attention, agreeing with his promise. He told Sébastien that he would be extraordinary, so extraordinary is what he will be. </p><p>*********</p><p>His mother, unlike his father, is indifferent. She just blinks when Sébastien lists the order in which he’d retrieved the eggs from the chickens last week, and just sighs when he recreates an argument she had with his brother two months previous. </p><p>The more indifferent she is, the more enraged he gets, so he stamps his feet and snarls the crude words he overheard by the port last March. </p><p>She doesn’t care even then. “When your brain can put food on the table, then I will care,” she says, leaving him alone in their shared room. </p><p>*********</p><p>He and his brother sit on the stone wall that he’d fallen onto just a few years previous. </p><p>“What does she know?” Henri asks, thin arms wrapping around bony knees. “Not as much as you.” </p><p>Sébastien smiles, and shoves at his brother. Henri likes what he can do as well, but Sébastien doesn’t feel the slight unease he does with his father. His father is always asking him to do things, like: remember which pocket the bourgeoisie keep their watches in, learn the inspector’s path through the city, tell him at what times the factory owners left for their midday meal. </p><p>It feels too much like work, and Sébastien doesn’t like spending his days watching and starving, and starving and watching. Because it doesn’t matter how much he watches and starves, it’s never enough for his father. He clings to Sébastien like a leech, devouring his information like the food they all so desperately need. He kisses Sébastien’s head and squeezes him tightly each morning, his mind fresh with Sébastien’s learnings, before disappearing for hours on end. The sun goes down, and so does his father’s love. He comes back late in the night, hands and stomach as empty as his heart, and glares at Sébastien with a vitriol that has him hiding under his blanket. Then a new morning comes, and the cycle starts again. </p><p>It’s easier with Henri. Henri thinks he is extraordinary at any point in the day. He runs around with Sébastien as his own shadow and asks him to do his magic tricks. He sits and listens for hours, laughing at the memories that were imprinted in Sébastien’s skull. Henri had even gone so far as banging his head repeatedly against one of the same stones Sébastien had fallen on, in order to get some of the magic for himself. It hadn’t worked, of course, and Henri had ruined his one good tunic with blood. Maman had been furious, but when Sébastien thinks about the memory, all he hears is his and Henri’s laughter. </p><p>“We can find some food,” Henri says, face scrunching. “With your brain and my size, we can do anything!” </p><p>Henri always calls him the brain, but Sébastien knows all of their schemes come from his brother. It doesn’t matter how much Sébastien stores in his head, Henri has two more years worth of knowledge. </p><p>Not that anyone would be able to tell that Henri was older. While Sébastien grows like a bean sprout, Henri remains stagnant, small and frail. As time goes on, however, it seems that almost everyone Sébastien knows starts to look the same way.  </p><p>“We need money to buy food,” Sébastien says. </p><p>“Where do we get money?” </p><p>“I heard the sailors say on the port that America stole it all.” </p><p>Henri hums. “I suppose we’ll have to take it back.” </p><p>*********</p><p>They move to Paris. </p><p>“More opportunity,” his father tells him. <em> More work, </em>is what he means. </p><p>*********</p><p>His father is wrong. </p><p>His nightly glares at Sébastien start to bleed into the morning. His mother blinks and sighs and sighs and blinks. His brother grows smaller. </p><p>They all starve. </p><p>*********</p><p>“The Bastille?” Sébastien scoffs at his brother. They are no longer boys now, but men. Too old to be playing at these games any longer. </p><p>“Where do we get money?” Henri grins. At twenty-one, he looks just as he did eight years ago, asking Sébastien the same question. </p><p>“Gunpowder is not money,” Sébastien grumbles, running a hand through greasy hair. </p><p>“It’s a start. An <em> opportunity,” </em>he says, mimicking their father’s cold gruff. </p><p>Sébastien smiles at his brother. “Come on,” Henri wheedles, poking at Sébastien’s towering form with skinny fingers. “Have I ever led you astray?” </p><p>A smattering of memories jumps forth in his mind, multiple times in which his brother had done exactly that. “No,” Sébastien says anyway. </p><p>Henri laughs at his lie, and Sébastien laughs too. </p><p>*********</p><p>His brother dies in the siege. The less said about that, the better. </p><p>*********</p><p>Time passes. </p><p>His mother gets old and his father gets drunk. </p><p>His father begs and pleads at him, wondering why Sébastien hasn’t accomplished the future he’d promised for him. But Sébastien isn’t thinking about the future; he’s stuck in the past, reliving the way his brother and his friends died, doing what he wasn’t brave enough to do. </p><p>His father screams at Sébastien until he takes his last breath. And just like that, another moment is pressed permanently inside his brain, seated right next to his brother’s death. </p><p>His mother follows soon after, but Sébastien doesn’t despair too much. She’d been as disinterested in life as she had been in Sébastien. And to him, his mother had already been dead; he couldn’t quite remember a time when she was alive. </p><p>Still, he finds it hard being on his own for the first time. Maybe it’s because he isn’t truly alone. They’re all still there, in the back of his mind, as they always will be. Plenty of memories, but he’s always drawn to the worst ones. Ones where his brother pleaded for his help, or ones with his father screaming at him. Ones where his mother whittled away to nothing in front of him. </p><p>He hadn’t been enough for any of them. He hadn’t been <em> extraordinary. </em>With all of them gone, well, he’s less inclined to try to be. </p><p>*********</p><p>She’s wearing a pale blue dress when he sees her, with a matching ribbon in her hair. The clear sky doesn’t hold a candle to how she looks in the color, the sun no comparison to the brilliance of her smile. </p><p>“Amelia,” she introduces herself, when he helps her with her fallen packages outside of the bakery. She giggles when she says her name, and it sounds like church bells. </p><p>Sébastien is glad for his memory, in that moment. Glad that he’ll be able to hear the bells whenever he wants. </p><p>But he’s greedy; he always has been. And when they part ways that day, Sébastien vows to make her laugh again and again. Enough times to fill the lengthy halls of his mind, until it overflows with just her. </p><p>*********</p><p>He talks to his brother, when he’s alone in his house. When he’s alone in his head. </p><p>He tells him of Amelia, and he imagines his brother teasing him ruthlessly, legs swinging as he sits on the stone wall, basking in the sunlight. </p><p>If Sébastien thinks hard enough, he can picture himself right beside Henri, laughing with him. </p><p>*********</p><p>He doesn’t remember everything. But what he does remember, he just doesn’t forget. </p><p>*********</p><p>Amelia takes who he is in stride. She’s as curious as the rest of them, but Sébastien finds that he likes telling her. </p><p>His memory fills of nothing but her. The scent of the perfume she dabs on her neck. The softness of her curls between his fingers. The wicked turn of her tongue, fast enough to even keep up with him. Her calm demeanor like lapping waves along the shore, her rages as vicious as a torrent storm.</p><p>The way she molds against him in bed. Whispers of murmured devotions before the break of dawn. Promises of a life that was unfolding together. </p><p><em> Extraordinary, </em> he thinks, as Amelia slumbers against his chest. <em> I can be extraordinary for you.  </em></p><p>*********</p><p>“My dear, when Marie Auclair asks if we were at church last month, make sure you say yes.” </p><p>“But Amelia, we weren’t—”</p><p>“I know we weren’t there,” she sighs. “And I know you know exactly where we were.” </p><p>Sébastien does know exactly where they were. In his opinion, that morning spent in bed was far more enjoyable than church would ever be. </p><p>“But when nosy busybody’s like Marie Auclair start poking around for gossip, it’s alright to tell a little white lie every now and again.”</p><p>“If you say so,” Sébastien replies. </p><p>“I do say so. Because why?”  </p><p>“Because I may remember everything, but you’re always right,” Sébastien sighs, a soft smile on his face. </p><p>“That’s right,” Amelia answers, patting the side of his face. </p><p>*********</p><p>Henri won’t stop crying when he’s born. Sébastien can hear his son’s shrieks echo through his skull, even when he’s finally sleeping. </p><p>“He’s hungry,” Amelia says sadly, cooing over their first born. </p><p>“We all are,” Sébastien answers, heading out to do something about it. </p><p><em>“Where do we get money?” </em>Henri’s namesake taunts him in his head. </p><p>*********</p><p>Tumas and Jean-Pierre are just as loud as their brother. As the three of them grow, they run circles around Sébastien and Amelia, and each morning becomes harder and harder. </p><p>Sébastien doesn’t mind in the slightest, and elates at the sound of boys playing and laughing in the house, knowing that once again it is real, and not just a haunting memory of him and his own brother replaying in his head. </p><p>*********</p><p><em> “Where do we get money?” </em>His brother’s ghost continues to haunt him. </p><p>Sébastien’s sons are older now, but they’re not growing. Henri looks so much like his uncle that sometimes when he pictures his brother, his son’s face is all he sees. </p><p>Even Amelia reminds him of a familiar specter, as she heats up leftover broth for the fifth time that week. She blinks and sighs, and it keeps Sébastien up at night.</p><p>He goes out during the day looking for scraps of food or money, coming home empty handed each time, deep lines etching into his face. But he still goes all the same, each morning without fail, traveling farther and deeper into the city’s recesses. </p><p>He stops worrying that his family is starting to look like those long dead. It’s inconsequential, when the real worry lies in his own face, and how much it’s starting to look like his father’s. </p><p>*********</p><p>He always liked to collect things. Having nothing growing up, anything he did have, he squirreled away. After his injury, it seemed only fitting that he would hoard memories like he did everything else. </p><p>When he was young, he and his brother would imagine a life that wasn’t theirs. Of a palace filled to the brim with food and décor, with enough rooms for them to get lost in. Their own Versailles. </p><p><em> “We’ll get there,” </em> Sébastien had promised. <em> “One day.”  </em></p><p>But it was just a dream, one that neither of them got to see. </p><p>*********</p><p>While he has a vast library of memories, he finds himself always going back to a select few. Ones that dance around in his head shouting, <em> “pick me, pick me!” </em>as he sidles by them. </p><p>One in particular is when he walks with Amelia though the Salon in 1806. The Champ de Mars is crowded, overflowing with people and innovation. He takes in everything he can greedily, the inventions and textiles and artwork on display filling the annals of his mind. </p><p>They don’t belong there, that much is clear. Although a public event, the public of which the Salon is made for, is as clear as day. But Amelia likes to walk down here and pretend, and Sébastien is happy to let her do so. </p><p>He is happy to be here as well, if only to give the memory of his younger self a glimpse into the world he had wanted so desperately, but will never know. </p><p>His favorites are the galleries, every space of bare wall filled with the latest works from around the world. </p><p>When he looks at the crowded rooms, he imagines the palace he and his brother built in their imaginations. </p><p>He likes art, and all the different interpretations of it. It’s like getting a glimpse at someone else’s memories, seeing the world for once through someone else’s eyes. </p><p>Inside one of the galleries, he catches Amelia staring up at a large painting, a hunger on her face that makes Sébastien’s stomach curl. Because it isn’t the normal hunger that is a permanent fixture with his family, but one that is far worse, and one that Sébastien could never feed. One of security. </p><p>Amelia looks longingly at the painting of the young girl dressed in fine white silk with even finer gloves, wrapped in a matching white fur. She’s innocent, in a way that says her face has never known - and will never know - the struggle of the people beneath her. </p><p>Amelia stares at the portrait and Sébastien stares at her, knowing they were both wishing that it was Amelia’s face in the portrait instead, living a life they both wanted for her. </p><p>*********</p><p>He works five straight shifts at the factory after the Salon. Four shifts to feed each of his three sons and Amelia, and one extra to scrape together enough for a bit of canvas and cheap paints. </p><p>He ignores the gnawing reminder of food and sleep, instead hunching over the purchased canvas for hours, replaying the memory of the Salon portrait over and over in his head, until his hand starts to mimic the same lines and blends. </p><p>It’s worth it when his bony and shaking hands present the portrait to Amelia the next morning. She holds it in her hands and cries, and Sébastien cries with her. </p><p>“For me?” she asks, her smile as bright as the one that she wore when they crossed paths at the baker, all those years ago. </p><p>Sébastien nods, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I could’ve done better,” he admits. The canvas he used was too small and cramped, and he had too few colors to recreate the portrait perfectly. </p><p>Amelia shakes her head, kissing him sweetly. “It’s extraordinary,” she murmurs, and places it on the mantle for all to see. And for a moment, Sébastien believes her. </p><p>*********</p><p>They hear Napoleon has moved the next exhibition to the Louvre. A smaller space for even more exhibitors. </p><p>The message is clear: amusement is for those who can afford it. </p><p>“We’ll get there,” Sébastien says. “One day.” </p><p>He feels the memory of his brother glaring at him. <em> Liar, </em>the memory says. </p><p>Amelia hums, her gaze trailing off, and she sits in her chair and stares at her painting. </p><p>*********</p><p>Amelia is not the only one who stares at the painting. </p><p>Betrand, who works with him in the factory, stares at it when he comes over sometimes for a late drink after work. </p><p>“You made this?” he asks, wonder in his voice. “Without sitting in front of the original?” </p><p>Sébastien nods, but frowns at the familiar tone. His father used to sound like that. </p><p>Betrand gives him a long look, head tilting in the same way his brother’s did when he was scheming. “You think you can do it again?” he asks. </p><p>*********</p><p>They say he’s an extraordinary forger. He imagines his father rolling over in his grave every time they tell him. <em> “You have an eye for these things,” </em> they say. All he needs is one look, a single glance, and he could retrace it better than the artist’s own hands. </p><p>Not just paintings. Anything, really. </p><p>*********</p><p>He wonders if he could ever be an artist. If he could ever take Amelia to the Louvre, to show off his own work. </p><p>In a way, he is one. Paper is his medium, he thinks with a chuckle. He has more works in circulation than any of the biggest names in the art world. His works are seen more, held more, <em> appreciated </em>more. Not that any of that matters. </p><p>Sébastien knows that being an artist is just another frivolous dream. He’s not meant to be an artist. Artists always sign their work, and Sébastien could not. He could never claim them. He could never walk past them in a gallery.</p><p>More than that, however, he could never create originals. Sébastien can only recreate what’s already pressed into his brain. </p><p>*********</p><p>Sébastien no longer has to work multiple shifts at the factory. When he comes home, the sun is still up, and he can sit and eat with his family, filling his mind with the comings and goings of their days. </p><p>There’s fresh flowers and bread on the table now, a smell that Sébastien knows he’ll never forget. The boys have new clothes, as they’ve seemingly started to grow again. Amelia doesn’t just sigh and blink now, but smiles and laughs. Today, she wears a new ribbon in her hair, a light pink. It’s beautiful, <em> she’s beautiful </em>, but he’ll always be partial to the blue. </p><p>Sébastien leans back in his chair, rubbing at his sore hand, well satisfied. If only his father could see him now. Sébastien thinks of the ghost of him in his head and laughs, as that is enough. </p><p>*********</p><p>He is an extraordinary forger. He knows this. But what he didn’t consider was that he was too extraordinary.</p><p>They catch him at the market with a handful of banknotes. They accuse him of forgery, not theft. Forgery, as if the francs in his hands were the fake ones. But they were real, as he’d swapped them with the counterfeit bills he’d made earlier that morning. He’d learned in his line of work to get rid of his forgeries as soon as possible. Besides, there was something thrilling about swiping the real money and leaving his fakes in return, only to sell the farmer’s own money back to him. </p><p><em> “Where do we get money?” </em>Henri laughs at him when he’s arrested. </p><p>His forgeries are so good, that they’re the reason he lands in jail. </p><p>*********</p><p>Amelia slams the door in his face when he gets out of prison. </p><p>She slaps him when he tells her that the only reason he got out is because he’s leaving for war. </p><p>*********</p><p>What’s interesting is that while Napoleon is picky about who could attend the Salon, he takes even the runts of the litter for his army. The mind of a conqueror, he supposes. </p><p>His battalion is filled to the brim with men like him. Skeletons with sunken faces that had tried to cut corners for a better life, only to end up with one worse. </p><p>They’re heading to Russia, he hears. They march, one foot after another, taking him to the north and to the cold, away from his family. </p><p>*********</p><p>He finds that if the meat is frozen enough, it doesn’t taste like much. He can almost forget that it comes from a crow. </p><p>*********</p><p>Sébastien doesn’t sleep. He can’t, without seeing the likes of his family, both dead and alive, waiting for him when he closes his eyes. They and his memories mock his life choices. Replaying for him constantly how he’s ended up here, freezing in a ditch. </p><p>This time, it’s his father who laughs at him. <em> Extraordinary, </em>the old man mocks. </p><p>*********</p><p>Sébastien runs. Of course he does. </p><p>They catch him, though, and he isn’t even surprised. He can’t even run away correctly. </p><p>They string him up on an old oak tree, and Sébastien’s glad for his memory in those final moments, if only to think of Amelia and his sons. </p><p>*********</p><p>He hates his memory when he wakes back up, knowing that he would forever remember gasping for breath that wasn’t there. And that he would remember all the deaths and the breathless gasps that followed, like a vicious, endless, cycle. </p><p>*********</p><p>If he couldn’t sleep before, he really couldn’t, now. Instead, he walks through the frozen tundra and freezes, as it seems to be the only thing he can do. </p><p>His dreams plague him, worse than any of his memories. </p><p>There are four of them. <em> The Horseman, </em>he’s labeled them in his mind. </p><p>A woman with fiery eyes that wields an axe, screaming for war. A man with wild curls, laughing with a blinding smile one moment, gnashing the same teeth in a growl in the next. Another man, with a sharp nose and even sharper eyes, clad all in black. His gaze bores into Sébastien's soul and judges. </p><p>And most terrifying of all, the woman in the water. With skin paler than the moon, who opens her mouth and screams and screams, and even Sébastien knows that she is Death. </p><p>*********</p><p>A small, cruel part of him is grateful for the demons. Sébastien has no time to drown in the memories of his past, as he is constantly consumed by them. </p><p>His grateful nature vanishes as quickly as it comes, when he actually starts to pay attention to his dreams. To others, the frozen landscape of Russia could be indistinguishable. But not to him. He remembers every hill, every tree, every frozen lake. </p><p>He sees the demons retracing his own steps. He sees them gaining on him. </p><p>
  <em> They’re coming.  </em>
</p><p>*********</p><p>He tries to hide from them, his own set of personal demons. He tries to find his way home. Heading south; to warmth, to his family. </p><p>They find him anyway. </p><p>They’re devils in their own right, but what’s worse, is that they tell him that he’s one too. </p><p>*********</p><p>They’re kind and disarming, but the Bible always said they would be. </p><p>They take him back to France at his request. They feed him; they clothe him. </p><p>Once he takes his first step on French soil, he leaves them. </p><p>“Stay away,” Sébastien snarls. “Whatever you’ve cursed me with, take it back. Give it to the corpse that hung on the tree next to me.” </p><p>They watch him with sad eyes. They leave, as he wishes, but the curse remains all the same. </p><p>*********</p><p>Amelia slams the door in his face when he gets home. </p><p>She slaps him when he tells her he’s not leaving again.</p><p>She lets him back in all the same.  </p><p>*********</p><p>His dreams of the others stop, to his utter relief. <em> Most of them, </em>he corrects. </p><p>Death still haunts him, screaming at him from behind a watery cage. He doesn’t know what she wants, but he hopes she figures it out soon. If anything, just to get her out of his head. </p><p>*********</p><p>He doesn’t recognize his sons, sometimes. His sons look back at him the same way, as if Sébastien is nothing more than a stranger. </p><p>Sébastien hadn’t even been gone that long, but the time he had been gone was long enough. The boyish grins and laughter that they once had is absent, now only making appearances in his memories. It’s a shocking reminder of the passage of time. </p><p>*********</p><p>He goes back to the factory, and begs for a job that he once thought he was too good for. Just like Napoleon, they take anything that comes in off the street. </p><p>*********</p><p>They check on him, occasionally. <em> The Horsemen. </em> He sends them away each time.</p><p>They linger, and Sébastien can feel their presence. Hanging in the shadows of town, walking the perimeter of his property like reapers. </p><p>“How goes it?” one of them asks him one morning. His face is too kind, and the tone of his question is asked in one that says he already knows the answer. <em> Joseph; </em>that’s his name. An interesting choice for a demon. </p><p>Sébastien doesn’t answer. Instead, he slams the door in his face in the way that Amelia taught him to do. </p><p>*********</p><p>Time passes. </p><p>His sons sprout and Amelia withers. </p><p>He stays the same, frozen. He doesn’t like to think about what that means. </p><p>*********</p><p>Amelia likes his mind less as time goes on. She gets frustrated when he corrects her, and scornful when he has to remind her. </p><p>Sébastien decides to keep his irksome thoughts to himself. Because it doesn’t matter that he remembers everything. Amelia is always right. </p><p>*********</p><p>Henri’s son doesn’t cry much. </p><p>The exact opposite of his father. Sébastien tells Henri as much, retelling the many sleepless nights he and Amelia had with him and all of his brothers. </p><p>Henri brushes him off, telling Sébastien that he has no more interest for his father’s exaggerated stories. </p><p>Little Maximilien dies less than a week later, and Sébastien holds his tongue. </p><p>*********</p><p>The man in black comes this time. <em> Nicolas, </em>he says, accented and slow, indicative that it is very much not his name. </p><p>He’s different from Joseph. When Joseph comes, he talks at Sébastien without letting him get a word in. It reminds Sébastien of when he was younger, sitting on the stone wall with his brother as he replayed the day's activities, barely stopping to breathe. </p><p>With Nicolas - <em> Not-Nicolas, more accurately - </em>he listens, letting Sébastien be the only one to fill the silences. It’s unnerving, and leaves Sébastien uneasy. </p><p>“Why are you here?” Sébastien asks. </p><p>“For you,” he answers, as easily as if someone had asked him the color of grass. </p><p>Sébastien scoffs. “Well yet again, I’m sorry to say that you’ll be sorely disappointed.” </p><p>“The first few years are always the hardest. I understand.” </p><p>“You understand nothing.” </p><p>Not-Nicolas smiles and tilts his head, and it grates on Sébastien. As if Not-Nicolas found him fascinating. “Perhaps not,” he comments. “But I’d like to. <em> We’d </em>like to,” he continues. </p><p>“I don’t need your help.” </p><p>The demon smiles again, broader now. “I remember thinking the same thing,” he comments. “Whether or not I thought I wanted it, I knew I needed it. I will always be grateful for the strong hands that guided me and Joseph. I would not be who I am today without them.” </p><p>“I’ve had plenty of hands guide me before,” Sébastien hisses. He can see them all now, in his head. “None of them worked out too well.” </p><p>“Your life has been difficult. I can see that,” Not-Nicolas answers. With his piercing gaze, Sébastien doubts there is little he doesn’t see. “But there is a reason you have been chosen for this. You are a warrior, like us.” </p><p>“I’m nobody,” Sébastien answers, and he’s happy to remind himself of so. He’s done being different, being extraordinary. He wants to be nobody. </p><p>Not-Nicolas pauses, his brow furrowing. “You're our first, you know,” he says, and <em> no, </em>Sébastien doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. “Mine and Joseph’s. I don’t believe we’re doing a sufficient job,” Not-Nicolas says. “I’m… concerned. For the time that is to come.” </p><p><em> I’ll tell you where you can shove your concern, </em>he wants to say. Instead, he stays silent. </p><p>Nicolas’s icy gaze slips over his shoulder, and into the house. Sébastien shifts with him, blocking his view. The cold eyes softened. “Have you told them?” Nicolas asks quietly. </p><p>The door slams and lock clicks in place in answer. </p><p>*********</p><p>He never tells them. They find out, instead. </p><p>Amelia’s eyes are wide as they both watch his skin knit back together. The only evidence of his mistake being the bloody knife he holds in his other hand. </p><p>Henri is there too, and he’s gone in a mad dash, no doubt to tell his brothers what he saw. </p><p>Amelia, of course, doesn’t say anything. She trails off to their front room, staring blankly at the mantle. It’s only then that Sébastien notices that the portrait he’d painted is gone, and that it had been gone since he’d returned from Russia. </p><p>*********</p><p>Amelia never talks to him about what he can do. She took his mind in stride, but she can’t handle the rest. </p><p>His sons, however, stare at him in a new light. They’re curious, and they circle him like vultures. They ask questions and they pester him, enough so that Sébastien finds he enjoys the company of his personal demons more. </p><p>“How did you do it?” Jean-Pierre asks him. <em> How can I do it? </em>is what he means. </p><p>He is affronted with the memory of his brother smacking his head against the stone wall, recreating Sébastien’s accident, so he could <em> “get a brain just like my brother!”  </em></p><p>Sébastien doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. </p><p>*********</p><p>Amelia dies on a Tuesday. She fell asleep in her chair, staring at a bare mantle, and didn’t wake. </p><p>The sun is blazing, and his collar sticks to the back of his neck with sweat. Sébastien stands next to his three sons, who stand next to their wives. The church is almost full, as it should be. Amelia was a light to all she touched. </p><p>Despite the sun, Sébastien feels no heat from it. Instead, he feels it from the lingering stares of those around him. His remaining family, the other patrons, his personal demons. </p><p><em> “I’m very sorry for your loss,” </em> the parishioners tell him. Followed by, <em> “You still hold your youth. What a marvel!”  </em></p><p>That night, he kills himself for the first time. Just to see if he had been wrong; if they’d all been wrong about him. </p><p>They weren’t. </p><p>“Would you look at that, Papa?” he asks in an empty room, to a ghost that isn’t there. Blood is splattered at his feet, the chamber of his gun shy one bullet. “I ended up extraordinary after all.” </p><p>*********</p><p>The woman only comes to his door once. She is the first to arrive, before Joseph and Not-Nicolas. </p><p>She doesn’t pester him to come with them like Joseph, or silently judges, like Not-Nicolas. </p><p>She doesn’t want to talk about him at all. It would have been refreshing, if he hadn’t thought the subject of what she wanted to discuss so disconcerting.</p><p>She interrogates him about his dreams, about the woman in the water. About Death. What he sees, what he hears, what he tastes.  </p><p>Of course War would be chasing Death. </p><p>He answers all her questions easily. About the brine that clogs the back of his throat. About how many times she shrieks before she goes silent. About the feeling of broken fingernails scratching against iron. He ignores War’s blinks of surprises when he speaks for minutes, categorizing each nightmare. He’s long stopped trying to bask in others fascination with his <em> gift.  </em></p><p>He only answers to send her away, and away she goes, without so much as a second glance back. </p><p>She doesn’t return for many years, only precisely when she needs to. </p><p>*********</p><p>Time continues to chug on. His sons’ curious gazes turn colder, and greedy. </p><p>Still, Sébastien stays the same. Frozen. </p><p>*********</p><p>Tumas dies six years, three months, and eighteen days after Amelia. Sébastien stands next to his two sons, their wives, and their children. At least, he thinks so. There are many faces that he doesn’t know, although he recognizes the familiar traits shared between them all. </p><p>The church is less full, all the same. Tumas was always more like Sébastien, more eager and accepting to burn bridges. Obvious, by the fact that he hadn’t spoken to his father for almost four years, and sprouted an entire family without his knowledge. </p><p>*********</p><p>Henri follows Tumas the next year, not to be outdone by his brother. Sébastien holds his first born one last time, and he can still hear his child’s cries as they cover his coffin with dirt. Henri is buried next to his infant son, who is still silent, after all this time. </p><p>Sébastien stands with strangers that claim his surname. Jean-Pierre refuses to speak to him. </p><p>*********</p><p>Jean-Pierre dies in the fall. September 18th, 1840. Sébastien doesn’t find out until the 20th, when he finally convinces himself to head back to see his son at the hospital, even after the latest round of scathing remarks he’d endured. </p><p>Sébastien doesn’t know how many people stand in the church for his son’s funeral, as he doesn’t go. It was the last wish Jean-Pierre had of him, to stay away, so Sébastien obliges. </p><p>Instead, he lingers just outside, standing alone.   </p><p>*********</p><p>He finds them again after Jean-Pierre dies. <em> His demons. </em>They hadn’t left at all to begin with. They were at the outskirts of town, as they always have been, waiting for him with open arms. </p><p>He hates them, he thinks. </p><p>He hates them because the first thing they say to him is <em> “It will get easier, with time.”  </em></p><p>Sébastien wants to throw his head back and laugh. If only life were that easy. </p><p>*********</p><p>Sébastien stays with them. Where else would he go? </p><p>They move around a lot, going where the work is. He learns more in those first few years with them than he had in the decade previous, and he hates it.</p><p>Where before the world seemed like a wonder, a mystery for him to crack, he sees it now for what it truly is. Memories cling to him like bugs to fly paper, clogging the recesses of his mind. </p><p>Screams of war, pleads of mercy. The world is a horror, and its inhabitants are a disease. </p><p>And wherever they go, Death follows, swiping others up in her cruel grip, and laughing when Sébastien begs her to take him too. </p><p>And when he sleeps, she appears again, screaming at him from the water. </p><p>*********</p><p>He starts keeping a tally of his deaths in his head, ranking each one. </p><p>Recollections of his family life get pushed to the attic, covered in white sheets, his new memories of blood and violence demanding all of his attention. </p><p>His time in Russia will always be an honorable mention. Currently at the top of the list is the cavity a cannon blast leaves in his stomach when they were fighting in the Crimean Peninsula. Or maybe that time when he and Joseph got holed up together for a few weeks in England, giving each other typhoid, dying, all to wake and catch it again. </p><p>*********</p><p>He doesn’t mind them. In actuality, Sébastien finds he likes them a lot. Because they might be demons, but if they are, he is as well. </p><p>He likes them because they’re smart and quick. Smarter and quicker than he is. </p><p>They don’t have his brain power, but they have centuries more of experiences on their side. For the first time in a long while, Sébastien struggles to keep up. </p><p>He likes it. </p><p>*********</p><p>Sébastien knows their language. He doesn’t mean to know; it just happens. Like a plant soaking up the rays of the suns, he absorbs their hushed promises of devotion and teasing jibes of unbreakable comradery. </p><p>There is no name for this language. No one else alive speaks it, so there is no one else to give it a name. But more so, it doesn’t have a name because it isn’t a single language. This one is a patchwork, a thick quilt created with strong threads of mismatching verbiage and irregular patterns of nouns. Ancient dialects of Arabic, a form of Italian that would be foreign to even Italy, things that sounded Latin based. Greek, maybe. </p><p>Things that shouldn’t fit together in any way, but once heard together, only asks the question as to why they bothered to be said separately before. It was much like the comparison of the two men that spoke it. They were just meant to be together. </p><p>So, to Sébastien, the language with no name is known as <em> Joe&amp;Nicky.</em> </p><p>They don’t know that he knows. The language is for them, and them alone. Even Andy can’t keep up with the smattering of languages they’ve strewn together.  </p><p>Sébastien knows he should tell them. But he didn’t know that he had already learned until it was too late. Now, when he hears it, he ducks his head, turning up the volume in his memories to try and block them out. </p><p>*********</p><p>Sébastien still whispers some of the words on his tongue when he’s alone, but they always sound wrong. The pronunciation is perfect, but the weight behind them is different. They are hollow when he says them, meaningless. </p><p>They aren’t meant to be said alone. </p><p>But he still whispers them all the same, wondering what they would sound like if someone would say them to him. </p><p>*********</p><p>Sometimes it’s the memories that he doesn’t have that hurt the most. </p><p>He wasn’t there when his brother died. He had promised Henri he’d be there, at the Bastille, but he wasn’t. </p><p>He knew exactly where he was. He was with his parents, locked away in their house, pretending there wasn’t a war happening just a few blocks over. His mother was in the kitchen, and his father read the paper, like it was every other Tuesday. </p><p>But he wasn’t there with Henri. He was too much of a coward then, too. </p><p>*********</p><p>He used to be third in line. The weakest leg of their relay. </p><p>
  <em> Andy. Joe. Sébastien. Nicky.   </em>
</p><p>It doesn't last long. </p><p>His head gets too loud sometimes, too many <em> ‘what-if’s’ </em>clogging his thoughts. He loses control and second guesses himself, usually ending with them in a larger mess than when they started. Questioning whether he should chase after Andy or go with Joe. If he should run his own way, or cover Nicky. </p><p>After the disaster in South Africa, they all sit him down. </p><p>“Follow me, nothing more,” Andy commands. </p><p>They put blinders on him, in a sense. Cage him up like a racehorse, only letting him see the track right in front of him. The next time they head out, Sébastien keeps his eyes trained on Andy, his vision tunneled and his rampant memories ignored. </p><p><em> Andy. Joe. Sébastien. Nicky, </em> becomes <em> Andy. Sébastien. Joe. Nicky.   </em></p><p>*********</p><p>They know he’s jealous. Nicky is kind enough to sit farther away from Joe, breaking any contact when he catches Sébastien staring. He’ll partake in a drink with Sébastien, if only to see him smile at what a shit drunk he is. He knows when to give Sébastien his space. </p><p>Joe is the opposite. He’ll sit and poke and prod at him with gestures increasing in ridiculousness until Sébastien is wearing an ugly grin, tears springing at his eyes. </p><p>What they don’t know is why he is jealous. They think it’s because Amelia is long dead. But she isn’t; all Sébastien has to do is close his eyes, and it’s like she never left. She’s there now, smiling at him when she first caught his gaze, leaving the baker’s shop. There’s a strand of hair that brushes over her face in the morning breeze. If he reaches out, he can tuck it behind her ear, like he had done hundreds of times before. </p><p>But he can’t, not really. Not anymore. </p><p>But <em> they </em>can. It’s still not why he’s jealous. </p><p>He is jealous because even though Sébastien has a head full of memories of him and Amelia, they still don’t hold a flame to the love Joe and Nicky share. </p><p>*********</p><p>His death rankings are constantly rearranged. Mustard gas takes the number one spot. Followed quickly by the cave collapse in Argentina. The bear mauling had been his own fault, but he’d never forgive Joe for the time with the bees. </p><p>*********</p><p>He’s dreamed of Quynh 61,584 times. Exactly. He can list them all out. When they happened in time, where he was, and how long he sat gasping for air that he didn’t need after he woke. He knows he should be grateful that the number isn’t higher. That even his brain found a way to switch itself off and not dream.</p><p>He’s told the others 729 times about these dreams. Exactly. The last time was in 1847. The last time the others had specifically asked <em> him </em> about his dreams was in 1851. Now, he sleeps as far away from them as possible to avoid these numbers increasing. They can’t help him, and he can’t help them. It’s frustrating, like an itch that can never be scratched. He stays away, not for the others sake, but for Quynh’s. While she might not have his good memory, all it takes is one. One memory of seeing the rest of her family happy and free without her, as she rots away in the bottom of the ocean. </p><p>Dream 3,058 sticks out like a sore thumb. It had been the first time he’d woken up angry. So angry, in fact, that he’d snapped Nicky’s neck when the man had tried to shake him awake. That had been in 1851. That had been the last time they had asked about his dreams. </p><p>*********</p><p>Nicky thinks he’s clever. <em> Booker, </em> he tells him through giggles, drunk on wine and gunpowder. It had been just the two of them - a <em> “boys night out,” </em> as Joe put it <em> - </em>and it had ended in disaster, as it always did. </p><p>Nicky is still laughing when Joe pays their bail the next morning. </p><p>Sébastien - <em> Booker - </em>is too, happy to house this memory for eternity. </p><p>*********</p><p>They teach him about blades, even though he is ill suited for them. Fighting with blades is intimate and personal, and he doesn’t like it. He likes the detachment that comes with guns. </p><p>Still, he watches the other three move like a dance, and revels in their skill. “Centuries of muscle memory,” Andy commented when they watched Joe and Nicky go back and forth. They dip and dodge before the other even finishes forming a fist, the pair so attuned to each other the performance seems almost fake. </p><p>Booker knows it’s not. Just as he knows that Joe and Nicky continue to spar anyway, more interested in moving together as one, than trying to defeat the other. They could be out there for hours without a single hit being placed. </p><p>When they spar with him, Joe tries to sweep his legs out from under him. Booker hops over him, and tackles him to the ground. Joe just laughs and calls him a quick learner. <em> In a sense, yes. </em>He’d seen Joe use the same move on Nicky just a week prior. </p><p>*********</p><p>He quickly finds that dying is his favorite part of the job. </p><p>Everyone is silent in death. </p><p>*********</p><p>He goes to the Louvre a lot and laughs. </p><p>Laughs at the ghost of Napoleon and the bourgeoisie that had kept him out before. Laughs for Amelia, who never made it there.  </p><p>He ambles through the halls and admires all the art, just as he had at the Salon with Amelia.  </p><p>He goes with the others too. Andy walks with him and rates how the artists she knew were in bed. Nicky glares at the pictures he can’t understand until he gets frustrated and gives up. With Joe, unusually, they sit in silence, and just watch the people watch the art. </p><p>It’s nice. </p><p>*********</p><p>Booker thinks about Lykon. </p><p>He only talks about him with Andy, and she only talks about him when they are alone. </p><p>A concession to Joe and Nicky. They don’t like to be reminded about Death. Their final one, capital D. A foolish endeavor, considering how often they dance with it each day. </p><p>When they’re alone, he asks and Andy answers, but she always tells him what he doesn’t want to hear. She tells him of how brave Lykon was, how funny. How he would sing and dance and laugh, and how he carried such a lightness with him that she and Quynh would be convinced he would float away.</p><p>Booker doesn’t want to know about that. He wants to know how he died. He wants to know how long it took, how many deaths he had to get through before he reached the end. He wants to know how Lykon beat the game. </p><p>*********</p><p>He doesn’t remember everything. Even he forgets, sometimes. A thought that he has to remind himself of, when it feels like his cranium is housing the whole of the universe. </p><p>He loses his keys; he forgets to pack extra ammo. He doesn’t remember every bathroom visit, which <em> thank God for small miracles.  </em></p><p>Even the days he does remember, there are gaps. Jumps in time where his brain decided that nothing happened there that was worth remembering. Sometimes he wonders how his brain makes the decision; he wonders who gives it the final authority on the matter, considering he thinks he would much rather remember two hundred years of brushing a comb through his hair, and not a detailed description of each of his deaths. </p><p>*********</p><p>He hates himself. </p><p>Not the poor sap that he is now, <em> no. </em>But the stranger that lives in his head, young and carefree, living out his best memories on a loop. He’s there now, running through grassy fields with his brother. He’s teaching Tumas how to write. He holds Amelia in his arms and whispers to her of love. </p><p>The man is happy, and he hates it. </p><p>*********</p><p>Jean-Pierre’s favorite color is blue. <em> Was </em> blue. <em> Is </em>blue. Booker isn’t sure on which syntax to use. He knows that Jean-Pierre is dead. They all are. They’re nothing more than maggot food, decomposing bone and rot, fertilizing the Earth that had given them nothing in return. </p><p>But when he closes his eyes, Booker can see Jean-Pierre in front of him, dying in the hospital. He can see him in the garden, playing with his brothers. Booker can see him in his arms, when Amelia first puts him there after his birth. A film reel of his son’s life, constantly playing in theatres in his head. </p><p>*********</p><p>They don’t know about him. Not completely, anyway.  </p><p>They know he’s smart, and they continue to encourage him to take to schooling. Booker doesn’t like it much; just because he could, doesn’t mean he wants to fill his brain to the brim. It’s loud enough, already. Regardless of his qualms, he goes anyway. The world evolves at a record page, faster than the others have ever had to deal with. They need him, in that way. </p><p>The safe house in Berlin has a whole cupboard full of his degrees. The rest are framed on the walls or displayed on cluttered shelves. Those are the ones Joe got his hands on, leaving Booker’s work on exhibit like he was a show pony. Booker doesn’t like it because these works are signed. With false names, sure, but his false names, all the same. When he sees them, his degrees, Booker sees himself as someone he’s not. As if he were an artist worthy enough to be hung at the Salon. </p><p>He knows better. </p><p>The others think he must enjoy school if he keeps going back, for even more degrees. But that isn’t the case. Sometimes it's easier for him to just get the degree than it is to forge it. </p><p>He likes computers, though. He’s taken to them like a house on fire, grateful to have finally met his match. Something smarter than him, something <em> faster </em>than him. </p><p>The computer corrects him, when even he is wrong. He stays up all night, when Quynh’s haunting visage becomes even too much for him. He types dates into the search bar to see how accurate he is. </p><p>Sometimes he’s wrong, to his utter delight, but mainly it’s the computer. He has over a dozen online accounts that have been blocked from message boards from spamming articles with a plethora of snide comments on historical inaccuracies. </p><p>*********</p><p>Someone manages his family’s graves. Whenever he musters the courage to see them, their stones are always clean from dirt and leaves. The grass around the edges is trimmed. Sometimes there are flowers. </p><p>The only one he doesn’t go to is Jean-Pierre’s. Even now, he grants his son his final wish, to stay away from him. </p><p>He hopes there are flowers there, too. Blue ones. </p><p>*********</p><p>“Can I be honest with you?” Nicky asks him. They were sitting on a bench together, watching the people mill around the atrium of the Louvre. Nicky nods over to the next room over, packed full of people trying to squeeze in. “I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.” </p><p>Booker smiles. He follows Nicky’s gaze, picturing where the Mona Lisa hides behind the swell of the crowd. </p><p>“Yusuf could’ve done better,” Nicky comments, and Booker laughs at that. </p><p>“<em>I </em>could’ve done better,” he says in agreement. There were plenty of other works here that he thinks should be valued in higher regard. But that’s the funny thing about history. Only the present can measure the worth of the past. </p><p>Nicky stands and stretches his neck, tucking the newspaper he’s been reading under his arm. He looks good like this, as statuesque as the very art in the building. He could see why he was quite the muse of Joe, regardless of their relationship. </p><p>“They speak of war again,” Nicky continues, gesturing with his paper. </p><p>“Must be a Wednesday,” Booker sighs, rising to his feet to stand alongside his friend. </p><p>Nicky snorts. “For all of the world, and all of its complexities, I am reminded how small it actually is.” He smooths the wrinkles on his jacket. “Sometimes I find myself missing the earlier days, when all I had to worry about was whether of not Yusuf was going to stab me in my sleep. Simpler times.” </p><p>“Yes, I’m sure your current arrangement with the man must be such a hardship,” Booker deadpans in response. </p><p>“There’s always a chance of stabbing,” Nicky smirked. “But with what, you might ask—”</p><p>Booker grabs the paper from Nicky’s hand and smacks him in the shoulder, his friend’s laughter bouncing off the walls of the museum. </p><p>*********</p><p>“Do you know where we put the whetstone?” </p><p>“I don’t know,” he answers, with a smile on his face. He likes this answer. He likes not knowing things. He is well suited to the fact that there will still be plenty of things out there that he will not know. He’ll always know far too much for his liking, but at least not everything. </p><p>*********</p><p>They don’t ask Booker how he got himself down from the tree his battalion hung him on. He was already out by the time they’d dreamed of him again. </p><p>They don’t know how he had to swing his suffocating body back and forth, to and fro, swaying with the wind. They don’t know that he snapped his own neck an additional thirty-seven times in order to get the momentum. </p><p>They don’t know that he had to keep swinging for hours, just to get that frozen rope to snap. </p><p>They don’t know that as soon as he hit the ground and breathed his first full breath in days he cried, wishing to be back on the rope. Because he’d rather not breathe at all then feel the icy air burrow deep in his chest. </p><p>*********</p><p>He used to have his memories organized neatly. Clean stacks, filed in the places they should be. </p><p>Not so much anymore. </p><p>Before meeting the others, his life had been repetitive in a way. His head was full, but full of walks to church, quiet dinners with his family, loud machinery in the factory, the gurgling of an empty stomach. Around and around, he went. </p><p>There were no repeats, now. </p><p>Each day was new, a fresh horror for him to learn. New ways to kill, new ways to die. New lands, new languages, new everything. </p><p>While there had been a time Booker once liked that he was struggling to keep up, now he hates it. </p><p>He drowns in the onslaught of new data, dies, and then dreams of drowning again. </p><p>Around and around, he goes. </p><p>*********</p><p>With all that he remembers, he often forgets that the others are not like him. </p><p>Time has stolen more memories from them than he can imagine. Sometimes he’s jealous, but mostly he’s frustrated. </p><p>“Cambodia, 1973,” Andy says, and Booker can picture the day perfectly. He feels the sun on his face, the taste of petrol in the air, the smell of death around him.</p><p>He knows exactly what he has to do. He follows Andy, retracing the same steps he made all those years ago. They draw the fire for Joe to sneak into the back and flank their targets. </p><p>Except this time, Joe enters from the left and is caught in the crossfire immediately. The three of them have racked up double digits for their deaths before they were able to clear the rest of the building. </p><p>Nicky, who had been clearing the rest of the compound from his nest, is furious. Furious at those who had tried to take Joe from him, but also at Booker who was supposed to be watching his back.  </p><p>“Where were you?” Nicky hissed, with an anger he so rarely sees. </p><p>“I was exactly where I was supposed to be,” he roars back. “Cambodia, 1973. I draw left because Joe comes in from the <em> right.”  </em></p><p>“I thought you went right because <em> I </em>went left,” Joe argues, and Nicky glares at Booker like he was the one who was wrong. </p><p>But he wasn’t. He wasn’t wrong. Joe came in from <em>the</em> <em>right, the right, the right. </em>“How can’t you remember?” Booker shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “It was barely a few decades ago. Andy,” he says, turning to their leader. “You know I’m right. We were supposed to draw left.” </p><p>Andy blinks at him. “Does it matter? We got the job done. A bit messier than usual, but what else is new.” </p><p>Joe chuckles and agrees to alleviate the tension, but Booker can still feel the weight of Nicky’s stare. He glares right back and stomps out of the room. </p><p><em> It’s not my fault, </em> he wants to yell. <em> It’s yours.  </em></p><p>*********</p><p>That’s a lie. </p><p>He knows it’s his fault. It’s not their job to remember. It’s his job to remember <em> for </em> them. </p><p>*********</p><p>“Which one do you like better?” </p><p>Andy stands next to him in the Louvre. They’re staring at twin paintings, the two canvases lined up next to each other. The color schemes match perfectly, but Booker can clock the slight differences in the strokes. </p><p>He shrugs. “Whichever one you like better, I suppose.” </p><p> *********</p><p>He tries to copy his memories, as best he can. They sit next to each other, side by side. What really happened, versus what the others think happened. </p><p>It’s an extra step for him, translating history to the abridged fiction they remember. </p><p><em> “Do you remember when?” </em>one would ask, and Booker would flinch, waiting to be swallowed by the inconsistencies. </p><p>Because his brain is not just for his own memories now. He tries to balance all of theirs as well, and fails. He feels the turmoil inside him, the way he destroys himself with each new thought. </p><p>Memories start to overwrite themselves, and he’s lost, stranded in an endless void, unsure of what was even real anymore. </p><p>He stays awake and night and screams, screams at the specters of his wife and kids. They start to show up in memories that they don’t belong in. The others too, standing alongside him, in places he can’t remember being in. He smells petrichor in the Gobi Desert, and tastes fire in the Chesapeake Bay. </p><p>Joe tells him of their time in Belgium, but Booker thought he’d been there with Andy. Andy claims to never have gone at all. </p><p>His thoughts bleed together, and he tangles himself in his own net. He wastes shots, as he keeps thinking his gun is heavier than it really is. He eats chicken, but all he tastes is horse. </p><p>He can’t listen to Vivaldi, not after what had happened in Venice. Booker wasn’t even alive then, but he still has the memory. Nicky’s, probably. Or Joe’s? It doesn’t matter; it’s his now. </p><p>Booker drinks to die and dies to drink, begging for the void to finally swallow him. </p><p>It doesn’t. </p><p>*********</p><p>He’s slower, now. The others don’t notice, or if they do, they don’t mention it. </p><p>He goes off on his own a lot more, now. He goes to chase Death, to chase peace, if only for a few moments. The others don’t notice, or if they do, they don’t mention it. </p><p>*********</p><p>He thinks of his grief. He feels like he can barely shoulder it, the growing mass slowly crushing him. He knows it will eventually. </p><p>But he is reminded from time to time that his grief is like a pebble compared to the others. For now, anyway. </p><p>He sees the way Andy disappears inside her shell for days. He hears the way that Quynh still calls out for her, in his dreams. </p><p>He knows the way Joe and Nicky adhere themselves together after a bad job. The way they cling to each other, trying to erase the taste of death on each other's lips. </p><p>*********</p><p>“Where does a wise man hide a leaf?”</p><p>Joe sighs next to him. “You’re feeling rather philosophical today. What did you have for breakfast?” They’re staring at a worn tapestry, a new addition to the Louvre. They’d been passing through Paris, and had some time to waste before their train to Bern left. The picture is one of a forest depiction, the greens and purples used as dark and menacing as the blacks. </p><p>He turns to look at Joe, the man studying it with a frown, his head tilted. <em> He doesn’t like it, </em> Booker thinks to himself with a smile. <em> Or at least, he’s trying to force himself to like it. </em>“You can just say you don’t know,” Booker chides. </p><p>Joe rolls his eyes, nudging Booker’s shoulder with his own. “Nice try,” he smiles before answering, “In a forest. That’s the saying, correct? A wise man kicks a pebble on the beach, and hides a leaf in a forest?”</p><p>Booker hums, turning back towards the tapestry. He didn’t much like it either. </p><p>“You disagree?” Joe asks. </p><p>“I think the answer depends on who the man is hiding the leaf from,” Booker answers quietly. </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, a forest would make sense to hide it from everyone else. But what if the wise man wants to hide the leaf from himself?” Booker asks. “It doesn’t matter where he puts the leaf, he’ll always know where to find it. He could find any leaf in the forest if he needed.” </p><p>He can feel Joe staring at him. “I would think the wise man would want to know where he kept all his leaves.”</p><p>Booker is silent for a long time. “What if he doesn’t?”</p><p>*********</p><p>
  <em> Follow Andy.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Follow Andy.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Follow Andy.  </em>
</p><p>He bashes the command into his brain until it sticks. </p><p>*********</p><p>He can’t tell when he’s awake, most times. </p><p>Death haunts him, in every way that she can. She keeps him sated day to day, enough for his addiction to be fed and his tally to increase. </p><p>But it’s never enough. </p><p>After each one he comes back, more ravenous than before. </p><p>*********</p><p>James Copley died when his wife did, Booker notes enviously. The man sitting in front of him wearing James Copley’s face is a good imitation, but still nothing like the man Booker had met eight years prior. The mirror he stared into was now shattered. </p><p>Copley is smart, but not as smart as him. He’s organized, laying out the carefully coded memories in Booker’s brain on his cork boards. He’s done his research, but Booker has to correct him a few times. <em> We were there in Calcutta. It took weeks here, not days. No, that wasn’t how it happened. No, that wasn’t Nicky, other people can have the same nose shape as him. Yes, they really did meet them.  </em></p><p><em> Yes, I died here. Yes, it hurt. </em>He would know. He was reminded of it, consistently. </p><p>Copley is silent through Booker’s explanation. He probably isn’t listening to the context at all, more focused on the enigma speaking. </p><p>“How many times have you died?” Copley asks when Booker finishes his history lesson. </p><p>A number jumps to the tip of his tongue, but Booker bites it down. Some things were only for him to know.</p><p>“How can you help me stay dead?” he counters. He decidedly ignores the feeling of heated stares from the ghosts in his head. </p><p>*********</p><p>Quynh is quieter, these days. </p><p>He’s not sure what it means; if she’s finally given up. It seems fitting, given the new path he’s chosen. </p><p>*********</p><p>Nicky glares at the contemporary art on the wall. <em> Stuckism, </em>he thinks they call it. “Well, Booker, it’s finally happened.” </p><p>Booker hums in question, eyes trailing around the room. The Louvre is crowded today. </p><p>“We’ve finally found the art in which <em> I </em>could do better.”</p><p>Booker snorts, turning back to face the painting as well. It was one of the more interesting pieces they’d seen displayed. But that had been the reason he’d wanted to come in the first place. There’s a certain joy in watching Nicky attempt to burst the canvas in flames, with the heat of his stare alone. </p><p>“May God help us all,” he drawls, and laughs when Nicky punches him in the shoulder. </p><p>*********</p><p>He thinks of Amelia. Her skin was always so soft. Stained too, either with ink or flour. </p><p>She’s nothing but bones now. Not even that, really. Dust. Just a pile of dust in a pale blue dress. Even though he’s never seen her this way, his traitorous brain still paints him an image. As if his memories weren’t enough, his imagination still deemed it necessary to run wild. </p><p>At least the blue ribbon from her hair was still there. </p><p>*********</p><p>When they’re in South Sudan he is reminded of anywhere but there. </p><p>He makes bombs in the helicopter and Joe makes the same jokes he did when they were in Dubai, in 2004. Booker’s sunglasses keep most of the dust out of his eyes, unlike what had happened in Jordan, thirty-seven years ago. He’d felt the scratch of sand for days after that. They walk single file when they land, with Andy in the lead, and Booker is almost sick with the amount of times his brain reminds him of being in the same position. </p><p>But he forces himself to pay attention. <em> Remember this day, </em> he scolds, as if he had a choice. When he thinks about it, it’s as if his subconscious was already telling him how wrong he was. How, of all the choices he’d made in his life that haunted him, when he’d gone left instead of right, <em> this </em>was the one that was the worst. </p><p><em> Remember this, </em> he thinks, even as he takes steps further into the desert, completing a destiny he knew was wrong. <em> Remember this, and what you’ve done.  </em></p><p>*********</p><p>There is an odd number of shoes. Not pairs, but total. Thirty-five to be exact. One extra shoe, for a girl that isn’t even there. The others don’t notice, but Booker can’t look away. </p><p>*********</p><p>Much later, Joe says, “The shoes were a particularly grotesque touch.” <em> Sloppy, </em>Booker agrees.</p><p><em> Remember, </em>his brain hisses all the same.  </p><p>*********</p><p>The new girl is a surprise, and one that Booker didn’t want. But then again, when has he ever gotten what he wanted? </p><p>As much as he didn’t want Andy to fetch her, he hopes she brings the new one fast. More than that, he hopes Andy finds her before she sleeps again. </p><p>He doesn’t want the girl looking into his brain. He doesn’t want to know what she’ll find when she’s there.</p><p>
  <em> Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.  </em>
</p><p>*********</p><p>When Nile gasps awake that night in Goussainville, Booker is curious. He wants to ask her if the water she tastes is as briny as his. He wants to know if she feels the rage burning more fiercely than her airless lungs. </p><p>“She feels crazy,” Nile says, and Booker wants to laugh. He thought that was just him. </p><p>He wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he starts a second dream count in his head just for Nile, as he listens to his brothers talk about a sister whose ghost haunts him. </p><p>*********</p><p>Andy’s blood is warm. It scalds his skin when he tries to keep it from escaping. </p><p>*********</p><p>The lights are blinding in the lab. It reminds Booker of the flash of napalm, which has currently replaced mustard gas as his worst death. </p><p>Booker imagines that will change soon, again, given the look in the doctor’s eyes. </p><p>*********</p><p>Booker knows he doesn’t need his condition to know he’ll never forget what happened at Merrick’s. </p><p>He’ll never forget the way Andy looks at him, the way she cries for him, bleeding on Copley’s floor. He feels her blood slip between his fingers, even now. He can see the brain matter clumped in Nicky’s hair, the way he lists against Joe’s side in the elevator. He can hear the break in Joe’s voice as he yells at Booker, the man’s anger betrayed by grief. He can feel Nile trembling in his arms as he pulls her from the car.</p><p>*********</p><p>What’s interesting is that he can still create false memories. Even not being able to forget, he still manages to find ways to lie to himself. </p><p>He’s never been to the Louvre. </p><p>*********</p><p>If anyone were to ask Booker why he chased Death, he would tell them. It wouldn’t be an answer anyone expected. </p><p>If they asked Joe, he’d say it was because Booker was selfish. If Nicky, he’d say that Booker was naïve. If Andy was asked, she’d probably just laugh and say that Booker was bored. </p><p>But if anyone bothered to ask Booker? He would say that the others weren’t wrong, but they weren’t exactly right, either. Booker would give chase, over and over again, without fail. Because Death gave him the one thing he valued above all others: quiet. </p><p>*********</p><p>He worries a lot. But mostly he’s curious. Curious about what will happen as time progresses. Will he run out of space in his head? Will his head burst like a water balloon? Will he die, for good? </p><p>He’s read every neuroscience journal, thesis, and study on the subject. There are plenty of theories, of course, but no hard conclusions. Not that anyone is really concerned. Why would they be? All they know is that they’ll be long dead before their brain fills up. But not Booker.</p><p>The most common theory is that the brain can store up to three hundred years worth of television. </p><p>He’ll be three hundred soon. Soon he’d be able to prove them all right or wrong.  </p><p>*********</p><p>He spends more time with the others now that they’ve left him. </p><p>He sees them in his sleep and when he’s awake, memories of them suffocating him. </p><p>It’s like he’s back in Russia again, being confronted with them for the first time. But this time it’s different. He’s the demon this time. </p><p>*********</p><p>It takes him too long to realize he hasn’t dreamed of Quynh in a while. </p><p>When she shows up at his front door, it takes him too long to realize that he’s not dreaming now. </p><p>*********</p><p>Quynh kills him a lot. </p><p>He asks the wrong question and he gets a bullet through his brain. </p><p>When he’s too silent, she screams for him and slits his throat. </p><p>Sometimes, he thinks Quynh is just bored. </p><p>He doesn’t mind. He’s bored, too. </p><p>*********</p><p>Quynh gets him, despite it all. She has her own demons, but she understands his pain, in her own way. After all, he was not the only one dreaming. “Your head,” she tells him, in broken French. “It’s loud.” Booker’s inclined to agree. “Too much, all at once. The drowning soon became easier,” she says with a shrug. “Preferable even, then to see the world through your eyes.” </p><p>She doesn't hold back, or water anything down - pun <em> intended. </em>She’s brutally honest and stubborn when she needs to be - he can see why Andy fell for her - but never overcrowds him. </p><p>Booker likes her, rage and all. </p><p>*********</p><p>They have an unspoken arrangement, not to mention the others. They’re healing, in their own ways. Booker with his shame, Quynh with her rage. They’re standing at a precipice, waiting for someone else to make the first move. </p><p>He is curious as to why the others haven’t yet. If anything, that means they’re still deciding what to do. He supposes he’s part of the problem. Quynh, within their reach, only to be blocked by his shadow. </p><p>Booker suggests leaving for a few days and then everything goes black for a while. He wakes in a full bathtub, Quynh leaning over him. “Don’t leave,” she whispers. “I have not been without you for a long while. I’m not sure I remember how.” </p><p>He stays. Fuck what the others want. </p><p>*********</p><p>Quynh wakes him one night and tells him they’re coming. </p><p>Instead of Quynh, he sees himself, freezing in the frozen tundra of Russia. <em> They’re coming, </em> he had realized. <em> They’re coming. </em>And he ran.</p><p>Sébastien had been afraid, then. Booker was petrified, now. </p><p>*********</p><p>Nile arrives two weeks later. She’s alone, but not really. She may be standing on her own, but he could feel the others’ presence around her. Booker could feel their hidden gaze lingering on him. He doesn’t let Nile in. He has no right too; after all, it’s not only his house anymore. </p><p>Quynh peers over his shoulder at Nile, her pierce gazing. It’s a smart move, sending Nile. An olive branch, from the others. Nile is the last tether they have for finding Quynh. Introducing the two would cease their shared dreams. If Quynh took off now, it would be a miracle to ever find her again. </p><p>Quynh must accept the gift, as she gestures Nile inside. She must be feeling either generous, or curious. </p><p>*********</p><p>Nile is perfect for the team. She’s a steady presence and speaks with wisdom beyond her - or any of their - years. </p><p>She spends days with Quynh. Booker is there too, but he keeps to himself. He hovers, letting Quynh and Nile decide whether to invite the others into the house.</p><p>Two more weeks pass and ‘<em> no’ </em> turns to <em> ‘maybe’ </em>. Another fortnight and Quynh looks at Booker, as if he should have any say in the matter. As if he should get the option to say no to seeing them again. </p><p>He turns away. He might have enough memories of them, but not Quynh. She needs them, whether she’s ready to admit it to herself. </p><p>She finally says yes. </p><p>*********</p><p>Quynh kills Joe as soon as he steps foot in the door. </p><p>Booker had blinked and then suddenly Joe was lying there, prone, on the floor. He’d heard plenty of stories from Joe and Nicky about how quick Quynh was, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. He wonders what he would remember about this moment, as Quynh was too fast, even for him. </p><p>Nicky enters through the threshold just as quickly, covering Joe from another blow. </p><p>Nile runs outside to stop Andy from charging in, but Booker can’t peel his eyes away from Quynh, switching between killing Joe and Nicky like a game of leapfrog. </p><p>Before he could think twice, he inserts himself between his brothers and Quynh’s rage, getting a butcher’s knife stuck in his deltoid from his troubles. He moves away, taking the knife with him, watching as the three of them, bloodied and distressed, look at him with wide eyes, as if they forgot he was there. </p><p>Nicky’s the first one to speak, whispering <em> “Quynh” </em>in the way that Booker has listened to him say for years. Quynh glares at him and Booker wonders how long it will take before she goes at them with her hands. But instead, she crumbles to the ground, wailing into her palms.</p><p>Both Nicky and Joe catch her as she falls, and Booker knows he’s been forgotten again. </p><p>Booker leaves them and heads outside, past where Nile is holding back a struggling Andy, butcher knife still stuck in his shoulder. </p><p>*********</p><p>Even Nicky and Joe are kicked out of the house by the time Nile lets Andy in. They all eye the door warily, as if waiting for the inevitable. </p><p>“She knows about Andy,” Booker says, trying to comfort them, even as he watches the door himself. </p><p>They don’t answer. Instead, Joe loops his arm through Nile’s hand and starts telling her of a bistro he’d tried when he was here last. Nicky follows, slipping next to Nile’s right, the men creating a protective bubble around her.</p><p>“It’s in the Latin Quarter, I believe, isn’t that right, Nicky?” </p><p>Booker bites his tongue, even though he knows it’s in the south of Marais. He knows because he was the one to take Joe there, not Nicky. </p><p>*********</p><p>He’s not sure why he never paid attention to the other people in the gallery when he imagined himself in the Louvre before. </p><p>He sees them, now, when he walks the halls of the museum in his head. </p><p>His eldest son, Henri ambles through the room, little Maximilien cradled in his arms. He nods to his uncle that gave him his name, as he passes him. </p><p>Although Booker can’t see them, he can hear the laughter of Tumas and Jean-Pierre. He imagines his parents are here somewhere, too. Lost behind the rest of the crowd, made of the many faces that have stuck with him over the years. Fallen soldiers, perished innocents, the occasional celebrity. </p><p>If he looks close enough, he can see the back of Amelia’s head in the crowd as she stares at the <em> Mona Lisa, </em>blue ribbon tied neatly in her hair. </p><p>*********</p><p>The others don’t leave after that. Neither does he, but it’s only because Quynh promises him a matching knife in his other shoulder if he considers it. </p><p>He stays out of their way, though. Keeping to the shadows, and only roaming out at night like a vampire. </p><p>He’s the reaper now, who stands on the outskirts of town. Who gets the door slammed shut in his face. </p><p>It’s funny how things work out. </p><p>*********</p><p>It’s not even the Louvre, he imagines himself in. </p><p>He doesn’t know why he never noticed it before. </p><p><em> Yes, he does. </em>He didn’t want to accept what it really was. </p><p>It’s a Salon. <em> His </em>Salon. </p><p>The spirits of his past walk the halls with him, trapped there in his head. And housed on the walls, covering every available inch, was his work. </p><p>His memories, his guilts, his pains, displayed in every medium known to him, his signature on each one. </p><p>*********</p><p>Booker stares at the painting. </p><p>He’s been coming here a lot more, he notices. His imaginary museum. His escape from the world that has so little left to offer him. </p><p>The frame of the painting is worn and dull, indicative of its age, but the picture it houses is as clear as the day he painted it. The memory detailed was that of a hand, <em> his hand, </em>cradling a small plush doll. </p><p><em> Afghanistan, November 27th,1996</em>, the painting was titled. </p><p>Booker remembers. He’d been there with the others. <em> To help, </em>Nicky had said. They’d hadn’t managed it, in the end. The cost had been too high, in his opinion. A lot of graves had been dug during that time, a lot of them small. Too small. </p><p>He stares at the painting. His memory stares right back. </p><p>“I could’ve done better,” he says to himself, tracing over the outline of the painting. <em> I could’ve been better, </em>is what he means. </p><p>*********</p><p>Nicky calls him Sébastien. Everyone else calls him Booker, or nothing at all, but not Nicky. </p><p>He had been the only one that hadn’t cornered Booker about his betrayal. He hadn’t shouted like Joe or cried like Andy. He hadn’t pitied him, like Nile. He had done nothing, staring at Booker, walking with him, talking with him as he always did. </p><p>Until he calls him Sébastien. </p><p>And just like that, the glass ceiling is broken. A simple word, enough to bring him to his knees. He feels the carefully tended memory of them in the London prison shatter into a million little pieces. Scattering like dust in the wind, now, just like Amelia. </p><p>
  <em> “Pass the salt, please, Sébastien?”  </em>
</p><p>He locks himself in his room for over a week, wondering why Nicky had bothered to give him a name at all. </p><p>*********</p><p>He doesn’t like red meat. When rare, all he can see is the pink of regrowing skin and imagines the red stain of blood. When cooked, it’s worse, because all he can taste is the horses he ate in Russia. </p><p>They eat red meat for three weeks straight. </p><p>Booker swallows it, silently. It probably would have gone on for longer if not for Nile who finally makes a comment for <em> “a damn salad, please.” </em> </p><p>*********</p><p>“Have you ever, you know.” Booker rolls his eyes. No, in fact he <em> doesn’t know. </em>It was something that he enjoyed greatly about Nile, her vernacular. For how strong she is, she’s still a child, unable to bring up less than delicate subjects. </p><p>He looks up from the painting he was working on. <em> Paint-by-Numbers </em>Nile calls them. She says she and her brother used to do them all the time when they were kids. It’s a mindless task, but soothing. She’d gotten one for Booker a few weeks ago on a whim, and while he had scoffed at the idea, he’d stayed up through the night to finish the farm scene. He’d only known it was morning when Andy had startled him from his blank state, placing a coffee in front of him. </p><p>He couldn’t place much from that night. Just the colors, and the sound of the cheap brush on the canvas. </p><p>Nile had gone on her computer and bought out the rest of the store that day. </p><p>Booker likes them. It reminds him of forging, in its own way. The picture is already there, just waiting to be put together by steady hands. He thinks it's the lack of decision making; there is no need to stray for the task at hand. Decisions were winding roads that led to forks, and twists, and turns, and all of a sudden, he’s reliving three memories at once, all because he was wondering if he should have eggs for breakfast. </p><p>Nile looks at him and smiles. She has a nice smile, Booker thinks. Blinding and kind. He likes it because it doesn’t remind him of anything, or anyone, else. That smile is all Nile. </p><p>“What did you want to ask?”</p><p>She points to her temple. <em> Ah, </em>he thought. </p><p>Nile knows, even though she hasn’t directly told him she knows. But she’s asked very pointed questions, increasing in frequency over the past few months. He’s caught her reading some science journals on neuroscience despite listening to her many complaints about learning about science. </p><p><em> “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, and that’s all I need to know about that,” </em>she had snapped once, as Nicky had tried to encourage her to consider studies in the medical field. </p><p>“Have you ever, <em> you know,” </em>she says again, miming a gun against her temple. </p><p>“Blown my brains out?” Booker finished for her. </p><p>Nile nods. </p><p>“Many times,” Booker drawls, in a terrible reimagining of Nicky’s accent. Nile laughs all the same. </p><p>“It doesn’t help?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I was like this before I died,” he explains. “I tried all the same, but I learned very early on that it wasn’t worth it. Trying to regrow a brain like mine is...painful. It’s a lot, all at once.”</p><p>*********</p><p>Joe spars with him. He doesn’t really ask. He just drags Booker out back and throws a punch, fighting hand to hand. They’re out of sync, though, and Booker knows it’s his fault. Another thing that’s his fault. </p><p>Joe tries to sweep his legs out from under him again, a familiar move that he knows how to block, but Booker doesn't this time. </p><p>He crashes to the ground and smacks his head against the pavement, and for a moment he hears his brother screaming for him. </p><p>When he opens his eyes, Joe is looking down at him, with an unreadable expression. He walks away with a sigh, and Booker spends the rest of the morning staring up at the sky. </p><p>*********</p><p>An imaginary Quynh sits with him in his imaginary museum. She’s the only one who doesn’t look at his art. Everyone else he pictures here roams through his galleries, begging for glimpses of the enigma that is him. </p><p>But not Quynh. He supposes that she doesn’t need to look, as she’s seen most of it already. Over two hundred years of a free subscription to the inside of his head, with the best seats in the house. </p><p>They don’t talk about Booker at all, much to his delight. Instead, they sit with their backs to the gallery walls and talk about Quynh. They talk about her fears and her worries. About her future.  </p><p>It’s nice, not thinking of himself. </p><p>*********</p><p>Andy talks to him like nothing’s happened. He thinks that hurts the most. </p><p>Like his betrayal is something she can’t be bothered with. Like she doesn’t have time to deal with it. </p><p>He supposes she doesn’t, now. </p><p>That thought festers. </p><p>*********</p><p>Booker has a hard time sleeping. He’s far from alone in his head, but he hadn’t realized that he had started to enjoy the dreams of Quynh drowning, if only to distract him from the other raging storms he was housing inside him. </p><p>Sometimes he waits until the others are all asleep before he slips into the bathroom. </p><p>He fills the tub with cold water and drowns himself to sleep.</p><p>*********</p><p>“Does it hurt?” </p><p>Booker isn’t sure how to answer. Short answer, <em> yes, </em>but, “Hurt is such a vague term,” he tells Nile. She’s been talking about it more; she’s been asking about it more. The others too, in their own way. She must have told them. </p><p>“Sometimes, I don’t notice it. I’m used to it, and if I’m distracted enough, it goes away, in a sense. Like white noise,” he explains. “It’s when all is quiet, that I find it to be the loudest. That is when it hurts.” </p><p>Nile nods, and leaves him alone after that. </p><p>*********</p><p>Quynh spends a lot of time with him. He thinks that it is because they have seen the deep recesses of each other's minds; the commonality joins them in solidarity. They’ve seen each other at their worst, and they tip their hat to the other. </p><p>He thinks one night, as he and Quynh sit on one side of the table, the others across from them, that they might be jealous. They eye them warily, as if they’re a puzzle that needs to be cracked. </p><p>Suddenly, he’s angry. Furious at the flood of memories that show him sitting alone, the odd man out against the rest of them. <em> How do you like it? </em>he thinks at them viciously. He decides to take Quynh to Vegas on a whim, to introduce her to modern gambling. </p><p>She loves it, and he doesn’t think of the others once. </p><p>*********</p><p>That’s a lie. </p><p>That night in the hotel, after they laugh over Quynh’s winnings, he thinks of the others. He thinks of Nicky, trailing after Booker when lost himself in another bar, scraping him from the sidewalk to bring him home, sometimes joining him in his misery. He remembers Joe hollering to him at his graduations, on multiple occasions. <em> “That’s my boy!” </em>Joe had crooned with a grin, earning several displeased looks. He remembers each late night with Andy, when their demons kept them from sleep. </p><p>He remembers them by his side as they walked down the street, curled against him like a shield as they huddled for cover on a job, their warmth radiating next to him as they slept. He remembers them in his imaginary museum. </p><p>He’s furious again, but this time at himself, wondering why these memories had been absent when he sat down with Copley a few years ago. </p><p>*********</p><p>He calls Nile the next morning and sends them all tickets to meet them in Nevada. Private charter, as a silent apology. </p><p>One that’s accepted, when he sees them all at the airport. Nile vibrates with excitement at being back in the States, and she immediately takes hold of the trip, dragging them on cross-country experience, much to her elders' chagrin. </p><p>Booker never complains. Instead, he files the new memories carefully in his rolodex. </p><p>Him, along with Joe and Nicky, attempting to push their rented RV out of a divot. </p><p>Andy refusing to acknowledge crying at the Grand Canyon. </p><p>Joe and Nile waving down from The World’s Largest Mailbox. </p><p>Nicky trying cheese from a can. He had lost a bet to Nile and Booker had never been prouder. </p><p>Nile meeting her first buffalo.</p><p>Joe getting to see moon rocks. </p><p>Andy and Quynh holding hands in Big Sky. </p><p>All of them, dawdling through real museums, scoffing at where the historians had gotten in wrong. </p><p>All of them, surrounding a small campfire trying the monstrosities known as <em>s</em><em>’mores. </em></p><p>*********</p><p>He unveils a new wing in his internal gallery that night, all dedicated to their time in America. He spends the whole night there, remembering each moment, looking at the bright swirls of colors used in the works, joy and love seemingly bursting from each paint stroke. Almost no shadows to be seen. </p><p>It might be his new favorite exhibit in the museum. He might be biased, though. </p><p>*********</p><p>It takes Booker a while to realize that months had gone by. They could have spent months more there, in the little bubble they’d created for themselves, blocking out their glooming past. But the others weren’t like him; they couldn’t run forever, and so he suggested that they head back to Europe for a bit. </p><p>The others agree, quietly. </p><p>*********</p><p>That final dinner spent in America, Booker stares at the table. Quynh on the left with a gap next to her just for him. In a burst of courage, he walks past her, sitting gingerly next to Joe instead. </p><p>He can see the man pause out of the corner of his eye, his fork frozen half the way to his mouth. Booker waits for the rebuff, but it never comes. Instead, Joe continues eating, pushing the breadbasket towards Booker. </p><p>Nicky stumbles in right after, but he barely blinks at the arrangement before flopping next to Quynh. He whispers quietly to her in Vietnamese, and she snorts, punching him in the shoulder. </p><p>*********</p><p>They head to Brussels. </p><p>Nile continues her training, Quynh continues her healing. </p><p>Booker is… idle. His days are quite empty, but he finds he doesn’t mind. </p><p>He’s out walking one morning when he makes the mistake of reading a newspaper. <em> April 21st, 2024.  </em></p><p>It’s been five years. Five years exactly, since Merrick. </p><p>His first thought shocks him. <em> Only ninety-five more to go.  </em></p><p>How had he forgotten his exile? Surely the others hadn’t. What were they waiting for? Has it been put on pause, because of Quynh? How long before they corner him again and tell him to leave?</p><p>Fear bubbles in his chest. One memory of that was enough. </p><p>He leaves in the night. </p><p>*********</p><p>Andy finds him, because of course she does. </p><p>Booker’s back in the UK, sitting on the shoreline of the pub they left him on, five years previously. </p><p>She sits down next to him, the small stones crunching beneath her as she settles down. “What are you doing?” she asks, as if she didn’t already know. </p><p>“Waiting.” </p><p>She sighs, exasperated. “For what?” </p><p>“You know what.” He’s bought a bottle of brandy, and it sits nestled between his feet. He hasn’t opened it, yet. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for. “Five percent of the way there,” he says, kicking the bottle. “Time to celebrate.”</p><p>Andy sighs again. “You going to wait here for the other ninety-five percent?” </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>Andy glares at him. “Fine,” she answers, shifting more comfortably against the stones. “Can I wait with you?” </p><p>“You don’t have ninety-five years, Andy,” he says bitterly. A fact that he is all too aware. </p><p>“Maybe not,” she shrugs. “But I’ll still make it longer than you.” </p><p>He laughs then, and Andy laughs with him. It’s nice; he hadn’t heard it since America. </p><p>“Come on, Book, don’t do this. Let’s go home.” </p><p>“Andy.”</p><p>“The others are in the car. They’re waiting.” </p><p>Booker frowns, hugging his knees to his chest. They shouldn’t be here; none of them should. “You know what I hate most about this?” he asks instead, pointing to his head. “My memories are like threads. When I think of one, I can feel the thread in my hand, and all I have to do is follow it, as far back as it is, and then suddenly it’s like I’m there again.” </p><p>Andy stares at him, and nods to get him to continue. “But the threads have branches. One memory leads to another, and then to another, and then suddenly I’m trapped in a web. Like staring at my own Copley wall,” he whispered softly. </p><p>“And what’s worst about that is that they’re memories. They’re set in stone. I can’t change them, as much as I want to. I have to sit here and relive each of the decisions I have made and follow the threads of the repercussions.” </p><p>He tugged at strands of greasy hair. “I can see him right now,” he cries. As he does so, Booker follows a thread to the gallery in the back of his private museum. The gallery that he keeps in the shadows, and avoids at all costs. “The man claiming to be me. I can see him saying yes to Copley. I can see him counting the shoes in South Sudan. There were too many, did you know that, Andy?” he asks. He walls by each painting as he talks, describing each dreaded moment as they’re painted out in his head. “I can see him shooting you; he’s doing it right now,” he adds, hand pounding at the side of his skull. “I can hear Joe yelling at him, I can feel the heat from Nicky’s stare on him. I can see him standing here with you, thinking that it was the last time he would ever see you.” Booker blinks, and points further down the beach. “We’re right there,” he whispered, tears spilling over his eyes. “Can’t you see us?” </p><p>
  <em> Can’t you see, can’t you see? Can’t you see the painting in the museum?  </em>
</p><p>Andy kept her eyes locked with Booker. “Book,” she sighed softly. </p><p>“It doesn’t matter if it’s five years or one hundred, Andy,” he said, husking out an empty laugh. “I will always see us, right there, in that moment,” he adds, tapping the side of his head. “I will always see everything that happened, all of those little threads leading back to a single moment to when I chose wrong. <em> Always.”  </em></p><p> Booker shudders. “I’ll always be here,” he says morosely. <em> I’ll always be trapped here, in my museum.  </em></p><p>“So will we,” Andy answers with a nod, leaving no room for argument. She stands and reaches out her hand. Booker is smart enough to take it. </p><p>*********</p><p>Quynh’s leaning against the side of the car when they walk up the pier steps. She throws herself into his arms. “Foolish boy,” she whispers. </p><p>Joe is outside as well, and opens the car door for him, where Nicky is already seated, in the middle seat, as always. He pats the seat next to him with a soft smile, and Booker dutifully follows instructions. </p><p>They drive back home in silence, and no one mentions his exile again. </p><p>*********</p><p>He trips over a Monet a few weeks later, strewn carelessly in the middle of the hallway. Booker bends over to place it back on the wall before Joe catches wind of his art being mishandled. </p><p>He stops, however, when he sees the hook in the wall already in use, one of his <em> Paint-by-Numbers </em>hanging carefully in place. </p><p>Booker stares at it for a long time until he feels Joe peel the Monet from his hands, muttering something about <em> “storage” </em> and <em> “it was tacky, anyway”.  </em></p><p>*********</p><p>He goes camping with Andy. They don’t say much, but it’s comfortable. </p><p>He knows Andy likes the wilderness because if she closes her eyes and listens, she can pretend she's in an earlier time. Reliving her own memories, in her own way. </p><p>Some are worth remembering. </p><p>Sometimes she asks him, when they’re staring up at a star-studded sky. <em> “Do you remember when?” </em>And he smiles, because of course he does, and she smiles back, because of course she knows that he does. </p><p>But she asks him anyway, a silent plea for him to share some of their memories, the good ones that even she couldn’t hold on to. He sprints down the galleries in his mind to find the right memory, describing the scene perfectly for Andy, who can’t see it. </p><p>He likes these moments. He likes sharing with the others, replenishing them with what they’d lost. He feels useful. He feels extraordinary. </p><p>*********</p><p>
  <em> “Pass the salt, please, Booker?”  </em>
</p><p>*********</p><p>He sees the others back in his gallery, but Booker doesn’t approach them. </p><p>He’s better now. Fuller, but in a satisfactory way, like a happy stomach after a warm meal. </p><p>But still, he clings to his fear. That another wrong step, and they’d be gone again. He’d rather see them at a distance, than not at all. </p><p>*********</p><p>One day, he asks Joe to draw Amelia. </p><p>He’s not sure why. He already has, and forever will have, a perfect picture of her in his head. He supposes he asks not for him, but for the others. </p><p>They’d never met Amelia. He didn’t let them. He kept her and his sons locked away in his house and in his head, away from the others, desperate enough to have one thing just for himself. </p><p>Joe is painstakingly patient, in a way that Booker had only seen him be when drawing Nicky. He hangs on to each of Booker’s words and consults him after each stroke of his pencil. </p><p>Anyone with a half bucket full of talent could have recreated her portrait, but not like Joe. He draws with such love and reverence. Like each second he gets to spend on this work is a gift. </p><p>He talks about her while Joe sketches. Joe smiles and laughs, and Booker is hit with a sudden realization that Amelia would have loved Joe. They could have spent the day talking each other's ears off, and still have more to say. </p><p>When Joe finishes, Booker has it framed and placed in the front room for all to see. He might have missed the chance of sharing Amelia with them once, but not anymore. </p><p>Maybe one day, he will ask Joe to draw his sons. </p><p>*********</p><p>He asks Copley to put together a file on Quynh. So she could see the good she’s done as well. It’s difficult, with an almost nonexistent trail to follow, and only Andy’s furrowed concentration as she tries to pick through the centuries in her brain. What they can cobble together is sparse, but at least it’s something. </p><p>He’s completely useless in this quest, but he tries to help all the same. It’s worth it, he thinks, when he sees Quynh’s face as she’s presented with her gathered adventures. </p><p><em> Remember, </em>his brain tells him, and he gladly does. </p><p>*********</p><p>He teaches Nicky how Amelia made her bread. His hands with the dough are just as careful as Joe had been with his pencil. He follows each step perfectly, but it still doesn’t come out right. </p><p>It tastes just fine, but still not as good as it was in his memory. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. Nicky just smiles and says that maybe it isn’t the recipe, but the hands that made them. </p><p>*********</p><p>Nicky still makes it for him, sometimes. Because even though it isn’t perfect, it brings him back to earlier days, sitting in their cramped kitchen, watching Amelia knead with one hand, the other protectively splayed over her rounded stomach. The sun hitting her auburn hair as she hummed quietly. </p><p>*********</p><p>Booker walks over to Quynh. He’s still not brave enough to go up to the others. </p><p>Despite the short length of their relationship, he feels most comfortable with Quynh’s visage in the museum in his head. She beams at him as they walk through the annals of his mind, her steps quick and feather-light as she keeps pace easily with his longer strides. </p><p>He takes her to a smaller room, one that’d he’d ignored for far too long. </p><p>“What are these?” she asks, looking at the closest painting hung on the wall. This gallery is one of a kind. The pictures housed here muddled and blurry, the strokes sloppy and inconsistent. “Why do they look like this?” </p><p>“They’re not my memories,” Booker answers. “They’re the others’. The ones they’ve told me about.”</p><p>Quynh looks around the large room with wonder in her eyes. “There’s so many.” </p><p>Surprisingly, pride flickers in his chest, rather than the usual weariness. He realizes that he brought Quynh here to show them off. <em> Look at what I’ve done, </em>he wants to say. Look at what I’ve remembered for them, look at what I’ve guarded for them. That’s what he is, really. A keeper of various snapshots across history, forever protected in his head. </p><p>“Look closer,” Booker says instead, nodding Quynh to look at the paintings again. </p><p>Quynh gasped in surprise. “There’s so many… of me?” </p><p>“Are you surprised?” Booker asks, making a mental note to ensure that this was very much <em> not </em>a surprise to the real woman. “Come,” he says, grabbing her hand. “Let’s take a walk.” </p><p>*********</p><p>He finds Quynh later in the courtyard, meditating. At least, attempting to meditate. She lets him pace around the courtyard for a few minutes before opening her eyes to shoot him a dirty look. He has never been subtle in his life. Then again, never had Quynh. Booker stomps his way over to her, looking like a guilty child.  </p><p>“I know that face,” Quynh smirks, rocking back on her knees. “I’ve seen it on all of the others before.” She reaches a hand up and Booker grabs it instantly, helping Quynh to her feet. “What did you do, who did you piss off, and who do I need to kill to take care of it?” </p><p>Booker barks out a laugh. “It happen that often?”</p><p>Quynh rolls her eyes. “Dear Nicolò was the worst offender,” she answers. “It’s always the quiet ones.” </p><p>Booker hums in agreement, thinking of the multiple occasions that had ended in disaster because Nicky had a ‘bright idea’. </p><p>“What’s got you so nervous? You look like I’m going to bite your head off,” Quynh continues.  </p><p>“Says the woman who once killed me with a set of chopsticks, and then made me go back to the restaurant to get more.” </p><p>“Well I couldn’t exactly use them after they’d been in your neck, Booker,” Quynh sighs. “And it’s not my fault the restaurant only gave us one set with our take out.” </p><p>“Of course,” he scoffs, but smiles all the same, and Quynh echoes the gesture. </p><p>“What did you have to tell me that couldn’t wait until I was done?” she asks. </p><p>Booker sucks in a deep breath. “They love you,” he blurts out, wringing his hands slightly. “Andy loves you.” </p><p>Quynh blinks. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“They love you,” Booker repeats, with less gusto than before. “I just wanted to tell you.” </p><p>“And you had to tell me this very instant, because?” </p><p>“Well, I—,” but he pauses, and Booker realizes that he doesn’t know why he was so affronted with the urge to tell Quynh in this moment. “I was just thinking about it,” he says. “And I wanted to make sure that you knew.” </p><p>Quynh blinks again, and Booker realizes that she’s as lost as he is right now. “Thank you for telling me,” she answers slowly. </p><p>“And I’m sorry,” Booker adds, before he can stop himself. </p><p>“I was just kidding, Booker,” she sighs. “I can mediate whenever, and—”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant,” he interrupts, and Quynh falls silent. “It’s just… You know, I haven’t even apologized to the others?” he asks. “Saying sorry is such a sad excuse for remorse, in my opinion.” </p><p>“And yet you apologize to me,” Quynh comments. </p><p>“Because maybe people say sorry because they don’t know what else to say!” he cries, suddenly frustrated. “I don’t know what else to say to you.”</p><p>“I wasn’t aware that you needed to say anything,” Quynh counters. </p><p>“I’m sorry I couldn’t help…,” he trails off again. “When we made it back to France, after I died in Russia,” he starts again, Quynh nodding as he explains. “Andy asked me about you. She asked about my dreams of you, and what I remembered. I told her everything I knew and then she left,” says Booker. “She was gone for years, searching for you. She probably would have still been out there if it weren’t for me.” </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p>“She came back when Jean-Pierre died,” Booker continues. “Joe or Nicky must have told her what happened. About what a wreck I was. She was there by the time that I found them again.” </p><p>Quynh gives him a long look. “You blame yourself for this?” </p><p>“She could have found you, Quynh,” Booker argues. “If I didn’t drag her away, she could have found you earlier and—”</p><p>“She would not have found me.” </p><p>“You don’t know that, Quynh! She could—”</p><p>“She would <em> not </em>have found me,” Quynh snarls, smacking at his chest to stop his rambling. “You are likely the most intelligent man that walks this earth. And even with all of your knowledge and all of your memory, she could still not find me.” </p><p>“Quynh, I—”</p><p>“For which you are not to blame,” she whispers, her small hands cupping his own. </p><p>“Don’t say that.”</p><p>“And why not?” she asks. “There are many moments that I can lay blame with Andromache and the others, but <em> never </em>in that one. You know why?” She reaches up and taps her finger against Booker’s temple. “I was there too, in my own way. When Jean-Pierre died. I saw you fall apart. I was and never will be upset that they were there for you in that moment. You needed them more than I,” she smiles. “When I fought that day to get out, it wasn’t for me, but for you. I wanted to be there for you, too.” </p><p>“You were,” Booker replies. “Even if I didn’t want you there at the time.” </p><p>“Cheeky,” Quynh snickers. </p><p>“I just…,” Booker breaks off with a sigh. “You of all people deserve to be happy,” he whispers quietly. </p><p>Quynh gives him a look he can’t quite distinguish. The softness in her eyes, however, he’d seen plenty of times in Joe’s sketches. No offense to Joe, but they didn’t hold a candle to how Quynh looks in this moment. </p><p>But it’s gone in an instant, the gaze returning to its normal mischievousness, Quynh’s eyes sparkling as she smirks. “<em> They </em>love me?” she asks. </p><p>Booker flushes, biting the inside of his lip. “We love you,” he corrects. “I—,” he breaks again.</p><p>Quynh takes mercy on him - <em> first time for everything. </em>She pats his cheek before kissing it. “Sweet boy,” she murmurs before leaving him in the courtyard. </p><p>********* </p><p>Nile is eager to learn, and Booker finds that he is eager to teach. She flits around the others like a hummingbird, switching interests at the top of a hat. She keeps him on his toes, and that excites him. </p><p>She asks him about history, about language, about fashion. He answers them all happily. He teaches her Arabic swears that have Joe choking on his meal. He lets her know that there has never been a time that Andy looked less than perfect. He tells her of the time he and Nicky tried to chase down Jack the Ripper in London.</p><p>“Pro tip, Nile, Nicky will do almost anything with enough wine in him.”</p><p>“The wine had nothing to do with wanting to stop a serial murderer,” Nicky grumbles. </p><p>“It did, however, help your enthusiasm to do so,” Joe laughs, knocking his shoulder against Nicky’s when his face sours. </p><p>Booker grins at the memory, one that had been carefully pieced back together in his mind. They’d decided to chase Jack on a whim, confident that they were more than capable than the whole of Scotland Yard. </p><p>They hadn’t found the murderer, but the police had found them. Trying to break into the morgue, no less. </p><p><em> “Book ‘em, boys,” </em>the constable had shouted, baton waving high in the air. </p><p><em> “Book ‘em,” </em> Nicky had slurred in response, still wavering from where he was standing on Sébastien’s back, the man crouched on all fours to boost Nicky into the window. <em> “Bookem, that’s not right. Now, Booker. Booker sounds better.” </em> He had stumbled to the ground, grinning at Sébastien. <em> “Booker. That’s you. Get it? Because of the books, eh?” </em>He had then promptly thrown up all over the alley. </p><p>Nile doesn’t let Nicky live down the story for months. </p><p>*********</p><p>It’s not easy. </p><p>There are days when they wake to Quynh’s shrieks, and they barely have time to insert their bodies in front of Andy before she delivers a killing blow. </p><p>Andy disappears for hours on end, coming back with a few more bumps and bruises that the others pretend not to notice.</p><p>Nile hides in her room when things get too much. She blasts music on her stereo so loud that it shakes the foundations of the house, a clear message to stay away. </p><p>Joe and Nicky shy from his touch sometimes, his presence enough to remind them of their worst nightmares. </p><p>Booker sits in silence and drowns in screams, his memories overlapping each other begging for attention. </p><p>*********</p><p>“I’m selfish.” </p><p>Joe pauses, his hand frozen over the stove where he is stirring a pot of soup. Booker can see a small frown tug at the corner of his mouth, as if still digesting what Booker had said to him. </p><p>“I’m selfish,” Booker repeats. </p><p>Joe looks over at him. “Okay?” </p><p>“I was only thinking of myself when I met with Copley,” Booker continues. “I know you know that, but I just want you to know that I also know. So there.” The frown is more pronounced on Joe’s face, he realizes. Time for a hasty retreat. “Okay,” Book says nodding. “I’ll leave you alone.” </p><p>He turns to leave, but is stopped. </p><p>“Helsinki, 1991.” Joe doesn't ask if Booker remembers. He never does, just as he knows that Booker never forgets. </p><p>“What about it?” Booker asks, turning back to Joe, frown on his face. He didn’t like to think about that day too often. It had led to a lot of sleepless nights in his opinion. </p><p>Joe sighs, turning the burner off on the stovetop, placing the spoon on the counter. “The plan was to recreate what we did in Cambodia, yes?” </p><p>Booker nods in agreement. </p><p>“Except I went right instead of left,” replies Joe, crossing his arms, leaning against the cabinets.  </p><p>Booker swallows thickly. “You were supposed to go left,” he answers softly. “It was my mistake.” </p><p>“No, no, don’t do this,” Joe snaps, throwing his hands in the air. “You always do this.” He sighs deeply, looking at Booker in frustration. “You were right, you’re <em> always </em> right about these things. I’m sure you can recall everything about Cambodia, as well as Helsinki. I was supposed to go <em> right. </em>” </p><p>Booker bites down hard on his tongue. “It’s alright, Joe, that you didn’t remember,” he comments with a coppery mouth. “We finished the job, and that’s all that matters.” </p><p>“You are not listening,” Joe huffs, stepping over to stand in front of Booker. “I was supposed to go right. <em> You </em> knew I was supposed to go right,” he adds, jabbing a finger into Booker’s chest. His face softened then. “ <em> I </em>knew I was supposed to go right.” </p><p>Booker blinks. “What?” </p><p>“I knew I was supposed to go right,” Joe admits. “But I went left anyway.” </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>Joe hesitates, and Booker wishes he didn’t ask. “When I went around back, I saw my path. The one I was supposed to take,” he explains. “But then I saw that if I went that way, it would have led men into Nicky’s blind spots.” </p><p>Booker pictured the layout of the warehouse they’d invaded. Nicky was in a nest to the northwest, in a guard tower that he’d overtaken. Thinking about it now, Joe was right. Nicky would have been left exposed for a flank if Joe had gone right. </p><p>“I thought to myself,” Joe continues, “that someone could see him, and he wouldn’t be able to see them. They could have shot him. They could have killed him.” </p><p>Booker nods. “You were just protecting him.” </p><p>“How many times did we die in there?” Joe asks, shaking his head. </p><p>Booker swallows, looking away. “Enough.” </p><p>“All that death, just because of a hunch of a ‘what-if’.” Joe scoffs, wiping a hand over his face. “I chose Nicky, and I didn’t even hesitate,” Joe says, clenching his jaw. “I will <em> always </em>choose him.” </p><p>“Why are you telling me this?” </p><p>“I’m selfish,” Joe smiles, shrugging nonchalantly. “I know this, but I wanted you to know as well.” </p><p>Booker stares at him, eyes wide. Joe just nods, if only to himself, as if he was the one that was satisfied with his confession. He turns back to the soup, indicating that the conversation was over, but Booker was never one to let things lie.</p><p>“You didn’t just choose him,” Booker whispers. </p><p>“I’m sorry?” </p><p>“Six of your deaths in Helsinki were from covering Andy or me,” Booker answers. “You might have chosen Nicky, but you didn’t <em> just </em> choose Nicky.” </p><p>Joe hums, tapping his fingers against his chest. “And in London you let us leave you on that beach, no questions asked. In fact, you tried to go back not too long ago,” he says. “You didn’t just choose <em> you, </em>either, my friend.” </p><p>Booker doesn’t know what to say to that. </p><p>“A man can be more than one thing, Booker,” Joe says. “It is not only you that needs to remember that.” </p><p>*********</p><p>Joe is the one to corner him in his head that night. </p><p>“Nothing is meant to be perfect.” Joe says to him, as they sit on their bench in his museum. “Perfect is boring. It’s the imperfections that make the piece memorable. They bridge everything together, and make the rest of the masterpiece that much more beautiful.” </p><p>*********</p><p>Andy is aging. </p><p>He can’t see the evidence yet, but he knows it’s happening. The others do to, by the glances they cast her sometimes. </p><p>When he looks at her, he can see the rest of his family, their faces almost greedy to take her away. </p><p>He tries to push the thoughts from his mind, even though he knows he can’t. Instead, when he gets really bad, he drags Andy out with him, doing anything and everything she wants to do. She’d even convinced him to try horses again. </p><p>“You know, I probably ate your ancestors,” he grumbles as the stallion rears beneath him. Andy throws her head back and laughs, before spurring her own horse on, leaving Booker in the dust. </p><p><em> Remember, </em> he begs. <em> Remember, remember, remember.  </em></p><p>*********</p><p>Nicky takes him to Jean-Pierre’s grave one day. He has a small gardening bag in his hand, flowers in the other, and of course it was him all along. </p><p>Booker cries and asks Nicky if they can get blue ones instead. Nicky agrees, and he teaches Booker how to plant them. </p><p>*********</p><p>It just slips out one morning. </p><p>He wasn’t really awake yet, still getting used to the concept of a full night's sleep. All he heard was Nicky talking in the kitchen, and just asked if there was any tea on. </p><p>The next thing he heard was the shattering of ceramic, where a mixing bowl had slipped out of Nicky’s hands. He’s staring at Booker with wide crystalline eyes, mouth gaping open like a fish. Joe, seated at the table right over Nicky’s shoulder - presumably the one Nicky had been speaking too - is just as shocked. </p><p><em> “What did you say?” </em>Nicky asks, and Booker startles. Not because of the question, but in the language it had been asked in. </p><p><em> Their </em> language. <em> Joe&amp;Nicky.  </em></p><p>Booker blinks, his body freezing. His mind, though, bursts like a dam, and waves of different memories hit him from all angles, urging different responses based on his previous memories. He chooses to feign ignorance. “What’s wrong?” he asks in French, keeping his voice neutral. </p><p>Nicky’s face twists. <em> “No,” </em> he hisses, his eyes blazing. <em> “What do you say about the tea?”  </em></p><p>A million thoughts barrage him at once, offering excuses and lies that he’d used before. More ways for him to run. He doesn’t. </p><p><em> “I’m sorry,” </em> he blurts out instead, in <em> their </em>language. “I didn’t mean to learn. It just happened; I promise I didn’t mean to—”</p><p>Nicky cries. Sobs in a way that he’s never heard before. Booker cringes and waits for a finishing blow from one of them. It doesn’t happen. </p><p>Instead, Nicky charges Booker and bundles him against his chest. </p><p>“You know? You know what we speak?” Joe asks, his voice wavering. </p><p>Booker nods. “You taught me,” he answers slowly, the words that he’d locked away in his brain for so long coming out clumsily. “You spoke, and I listened.” </p><p>He hears Nicky cry again and feels the press of lips against his cheek. The flood gates open, and Nicky speaks at a speed at which he can’t even comprehend. There are words that he says that even Booker doesn’t know. </p><p>“What?” he asks. “What do you want?”</p><p>Nicky repeats himself. He’s familiar with most, but not the verb. He tells Nicky as such. </p><p><em> “Sarçî,” </em>Nicky echoes, slowly. “Zeneize. It means to heal.” </p><p>*********</p><p>Nicky only speaks to him in this language. He whispers to him in the morning, with that shy and crooked smile that he has. When they go out together, he is fast and animated in a way Booker had never seen before. His hands wave wildly, and there’s a certain childlike glee dripping from each word. </p><p>Joe thanks Booker at every moment he can, because as much as he loves Joe, Nicky is just happy he has someone else to talk to. <em> “He misses his brother, too,” </em> Joe confesses to him one night. <em> “He does not have your memory and does not know much of his brother anymore. His memory lives on through your words.” </em> Joe smiles at him. <em> “Most of our lives are long gone now, replaced by new ages. To hear part of it live on? It means more than you could ever know.”  </em></p><p>Joe enjoys it just as much. He makes lewd comments at the breakfast table that could make even Andy blush. He gripes and moans and teases, and Booker loves it. He shouts it to Booker across the shop they’re in, relishing in the confusion on people’s faces. Sometimes he speaks only in gibberish, and he and Booker laugh when the others don’t even notice. </p><p>They sit with Booker late into the night, teaching him the words he has not yet learned. </p><p>Until he asks the word for <em> gun, </em> and both men pause. There is no word for <em> gun </em>in their language. They hadn’t been invented when they’d started to speak it. Many modern terms were avoided because of this, or forced to be described in a different way, as there was no direct translation. </p><p>Instead of moving past it, Joe shrugs, and answers <em> pistolet. </em>Gun, in French. </p><p>Nicky nods in agreement. Whenever they stumbled on another word they didn’t already have, it was deemed to be learned in French. </p><p>None of the others ask for translations, or to be taught. </p><p>Because it’s <em> their </em> language, now. <em> Joe&amp;Nicky&amp;Booker.  </em></p><p>*********</p><p>Booker sits with Nicky in the den. They’re the only ones there. Joe is out at the market, and Andy has taken Quynh and Nile for a <em> ‘girls weekend’, </em> as Nile put it <em> . </em>Although he wasn’t sure if survivalist training in the woods is what Nile had in mind. </p><p>Nicky is sharpening his and Joe’s swords, a chore that he’d been doing for centuries. Booker had decided to join him, comforted by the constant scrape of the whetstone over the blade. He’d been trying to read - hands laden with a new novel Nile had picked up for him - but Booker found he couldn’t focus. </p><p>“Will you tell me about him?” Booker asks, suddenly. </p><p>Nicky doesn’t pause in his ministrations. “Who?” </p><p>“Your brother.” </p><p>The scraping stops, and Booker wishes he held his tongue. “My brother?” Nicky asks. </p><p>“Only if you want to,” Booker replies. “Joe mentioned him to me the other day, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t know you had a brother.” He hadn’t ever thought to ask, now that Booker thinks about it. </p><p>Nicky set Joe’s scimitar down on the table in front of him. “I had many brothers; three of them. And a sister as well.”  </p><p>“Oh,” Booker replies, <em> really </em>wishing now he’d held his tongue. “I didn’t know. Joe only mentioned the one.” </p><p>“Two of my brothers and my sister were from a previous marriage,” Nicky says. “They were already grown by the time I was born. I didn’t really know them that much.” </p><p>“But your other brother?” </p><p>“Giano,” Nicky says with a soft smile. One that Booker wears for Henri. “Our mother was the last of our father’s marriages. She was quite young when she married him. Giano and I weren’t even a year apart in age.”  </p><p>“What was he like?”</p><p>“Everything I wanted to be,” Nicky chuckles. “Then again, with him being older, he could have done anything and I would have thought it was a miracle.” </p><p>Booker smiles, thinking of Henri. “I know the feeling,” he agrees. </p><p>“The thing was, no one would know we were brothers unless we told them. Giano took after my father, but I was the spitting image of my mother,” Nicky continues. “Or so they told me.” </p><p>Booker frowns. “You didn't know your mother?” </p><p>“No,” Nicky sighed, shaking his head. “She, uh, died giving birth to me.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Booker whispers. </p><p>“It’s alright,” Nicky answers kindly. “My father…” Nicky trails off in a way that Booker wishes that he didn’t have to. “He paid little regard to me and my brother. But I found that I didn’t mind. I had Giano, and that was enough for me. We did everything together.”</p><p>Booker thinks of Henri standing outside the Bastille, and he shivers. “Did Giano go to war with you?” </p><p>Nicky’s gaze trails behind Booker, staring blankly at the wall. “No,” Nicky answers. “It was the one place that I went that he did not follow.” </p><p>Booker nods, unsure if he should feel relieved or not. </p><p>“You know, I’ve always wanted to ask you,” Booker continued, feeling particularly courageous. </p><p>“What’s that?” </p><p>“Would you go back and change things if you could?” There was no need to say what said <em> things </em>were. Nicky’s involvement in Jerusalem was not a large topic of discussion. And when it was, it was often watered down by Joe, but Booker could see the dark cloud that still hung to Nicky whenever it was brought up. </p><p>“What do you think?” Nicky asks with a sad smile. </p><p>“I think I already know what you’ll say, but—”</p><p>“You’re really just curious to see how hard it is for me to answer?” </p><p>Booker grimaces, but he knows that Nicky is right. </p><p>“No,” Nicky says quietly, wearing a grimace. “I would not change my journey to Jerusalem. I would not stray from any path that could lead me away from Joe.</p><p>“Now, do I wish things could be different? Yes,” Nicky continues. “I do not need your memory to be haunted by what I did there, even after all this time. I know how long it takes for a man to burn to death by Greek fire. I know that we measured a victory by the sound of the screams that were left. I know how hard I have to swing a blade to cut clean through Joe’s gut.” Nicky pauses, breath catching in his throat. “Sometimes I still find myself looking in the mirror and not recognize who stares back at me.” </p><p>Now that was something that Booker could understand. </p><p>“But still, my answer is no,” Nicky says with a shaky smile. “Because I know there would be no other way I could end up here, right now. So I would do it all again, if I needed to. I’ll take the pain and all, just so I can be where I should be. With our family.”   </p><p>Booker swallows thickly. “Right,” he chuckles wetly, wiping at an errant tear. “I thought so.” </p><p>“But that does not mean there are other things in my life that I wound not change,” Nicky adds, shrugging when Booker shoots him a dry look. </p><p>“And what would that be? Please tell me it’s that haircut from the 70’s.”</p><p>Nicky chuckles. “Joe liked it.” </p><p>“He did <em> not,” </em>Booker interjects, kicking a foot out to knock against Nicky’s. “He just wanted to get laid.” </p><p>Nicky laughs with a snort, and Booker commits the sound to memory. “You may be right.” </p><p><em> I am, </em>Booker thinks childishly, but he bites his tongue. “What would you change?” he asks instead. </p><p>Nicky pauses momentarily, looking down to pick at the hem of his shirt. “I would have gone and seen my brother again,” he admits. </p><p>Booker waits patiently for him to continue. “After we left Jerusalem,” Nicky starts, “Joe and I decided not to go back to our families. Joe said that he knew his kin would be looked after by his remaining brothers and uncles but I didn’t go back because—,” Nicky stutters. “I was too much of a coward. Joe even offered to travel to Genoa with me, to see Giano. But I said no. I didn’t want my brother to see me in this way.” </p><p>Booker frowns. “Saving yourself pain isn’t cowardly.” </p><p>But Nicky shakes his head, waving a hand at Booker in disagreement. “I think it was why I was so envious of you, when we first met,” Nicky admits softly. </p><p>“I’m sorry?” </p><p>“When we brought you back to France you dug your feet in the ground and screamed at us to get lost,” Nicky chuckles. “You weren’t what any of us expected, that’s for sure.” </p><p>“I’ll take that as a compliment.” </p><p>“Andy wanted to drag you off in the middle of the night, kicking and screaming,” Nicky continues. “Joe agreed as well.” </p><p>“But not you?” </p><p>“I saw you with your wife and sons.” Nicky leans back in his seat and rubs at the back of his neck, nervously. Booker could count the amount of times that he’s seen Nicky like this on one hand. “I saw you with them and I couldn’t help but think of Giano.”</p><p>Booker nods, not sure how else to respond. </p><p>“I don’t know what happened to him,” Nicky admits sadly. “I don’t know what he did with his life, or if he had any children. I don’t know when he died, or of what. I don’t have any other memories past him waving goodbye to me at the port.” </p><p>Booker wishes he could tell Nicky that it was better that way, but he couldn’t. The imagination could be a crueler beast than that of any memory. He’d imagined his own brother’s death at the Bastille far too many times. </p><p>“But you went back to your family without a moment’s hesitation,” says Nicky. “Even then, when your whole world was crumbling around you, just still showed such courage.” </p><p>Booker scoffs. “And look what that got me. My family hated me in the end.” </p><p>“As if you didn’t know that was going to happen.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You are an extremely intelligent man, Booker,” Nicky frowns. “There is no doubt in my mind that you could not see that your relationship with your family was heading for ruin. It may have taken a few years, but you knew, once they started to get older, how it would end.” Booker looks back down in his hands, refusing to meet Nicky’s gaze. “But you stayed anyway. Why?” </p><p>“I was afraid. Afraid of you, and the others! I couldn’t—”</p><p>“Because they needed you,” Nicky corrects. “They needed you and you didn’t so much as blink.” </p><p>“Nicky, I—”</p><p>“I watched you for years,” Nicky continues. “You worked, you fought, you begged, for your wife and your children, and then your children’s children. You saw the hatred on their faces and you returned it with a smile.” </p><p>“I was a fool—”</p><p>“You were a <em> warrior. </em>One stronger than Joe or I ever were.” </p><p>Booker doesn’t know how to answer that. He could feel his face flush, answering for him. </p><p>“Now let me ask you,” his friend says, raising an eyebrow. “If you could go back and change things, would you?” </p><p>Booker doesn’t hesitate, not even needing to delve into his mind for an answer. </p><p>“No,” he responds. “I’d do it all again, if I needed to. Pain and all.” </p><p>Nicky nods, satisfied. “I thought so.” </p><p>*********</p><p>Nicky walks with him in his Salon today. They leave Joe in the west wing, hammering a nail into the wall, adding his portrait of Amelia to the already overflowing walls. </p><p>Nicky leads them to their familiar haunt, the bench by one of the more popular galleries. “Have you ever gone and seen it?” Nicky asks him. </p><p>Booker furrows his brow and Nicky nods to the room over, where the crowd is as thick as it always is, to catch a glimpse at his most priceless art. He’d thought of it as the <em> Mona Lisa </em>once, when he was still lying to himself. He and Nicky had laughed at it before. </p><p>“No,” Booker admits. He’s never gone over there. </p><p>Nicky grabs his arm gently and pulls him towards the room, the crowd seemingly parting as they passed through. They gather near the front of the crowd. Booker can see the back of Amelia’s head as she looks at the piece, blue ribbon tied neatly in her hair. Booker forces his eyes to the painting instead. </p><p>He hears Nicky huff next to him. “I stand corrected,” he says. “I don’t believe Joe could have done better.” </p><p>There, housed alone on the wall, guarded by a thick barricade - stone, the one he and his brother used to sit on - was a memory that he hadn’t thought about for a long time. </p><p>It was the painting he had made for Amelia, all those years ago. The young girl dressed in white, with fine gloves and matching fur. The one that Amelia kept nestled on the mantle. </p><p>“I could’ve done better,” Booker answers immediately, the way he always has. </p><p>“It’s perfect. Extraordinary.” He thinks it was Nicky that answers him, but all he hears is Amelia. </p><p>Booker can’t look away. </p><p>“I guess some things <em> are </em>worth the fuss,” Nicky smiles. </p><p>Booker scoffs. “The work of a forger?”</p><p>“The work of a man who loves his family,” Nicky corrects. “One that would do anything for them.” </p><p>They stay there and stare at the painting for a long while. </p><p>*********</p><p>Booker catches Andy trying to ineffectively clean her busted knuckles. He tuts at her and takes over the cleaning, in a way that Amelia used to do for him. </p><p>“Just a scratch,” Andy comments. </p><p>“A scratch that wouldn’t have anything to do with the busted microwave in the kitchen, right?” he smirks. </p><p>“Purely coincidental.” </p><p>Booker laughs at that, and Andy joins in with him. Booker stares at her, entranced by her beauty. There are lines that form at the corner of her eyes when she smiles. He’s never noticed them before. </p><p>“You’re happy,” he realizes. </p><p>Andy pauses, before agreeing. “I am.”</p><p>Booker feels his chest tighten. “Good,” he says, swallowing around a lump in his throat. </p><p>“And you?” Andy askes. </p><p>“You know me, boss,” Booker answers. “I’m happy if you’re happy.” </p><p>He gets up to leave but Andy grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Book,” she scolds. “Are you happy?” </p><p>He feels his thoughts scatter, looking for excuses as they always did. Maybe a snarky joke to pull attention. But none come. Maybe it was because there was no need for them. “I am,” he admits. And surprisingly enough, he doesn’t burst into flames by saying so. </p><p>*********</p><p>It’s the first time Nile is here, in the museum. He catches her ambling through one of the open archways, eyes trailing around with an eager expression. Nile sees him and smiles, walking towards him, pausing only to wave at little Maximillian who is still cradled in his father’s arms. </p><p>“You’re new,” Booker murmurs with a smile. </p><p>“Nice place you got here,” she answers. “Show me around?” </p><p>Booker jerks his head, leading her through his galleries. Sun is spilling through the glass ceiling, and the whole area is warm and bright. </p><p>“How about this one?” he asks, nodding to a large canvas on the wall. She stops and stares, head tilting in a way that is so reminiscent of Nicky that it makes his heart clench. </p><p>“Tell me about it,” she replies. </p><p>He does. </p><p>She grins at him when he finishes, a grin that belongs only to Nile. “I think I’d like to hear this story.” </p><p>*********</p><p>He wakes early the next morning and paces in front of Nile’s door for hours. </p><p>When she finally opens the door, drowsy and confused, he asks before his courage fails him. “Would you like to get some coffee this morning? I want to stretch my legs.” </p><p>Nile shrugs and slips on her sneakers, following him out of the house. He buys them each a large coffee, and a muffin for Nile to munch on. She digs in happily, and Booker taps at his cup nervously. </p><p>“Did you know that Joe and I had to get married in Denmark once?” he asks. “Nicky was the one to marry us.” </p><p>Niles blinks at him. “Really?” </p><p>Booker chuckles, nodding. He pauses then, before adding, “It’s quite the story. Would you like to hear it?” </p><p>Nile burrows into her chair, and takes a swig from her coffee. “I think I would,” she says. </p><p>Booker grins and he tells her. </p><p>*********</p><p>His museum grows. He doubts the expansions will ever stop.</p><p>He thinks back to when he was a boy, and guesses he did accomplish one thing he wanted. He owns a palace, filled to the brim, in his own way. </p><p>He has the largest art collection known to man, even though he’s the only one who can really view it. Pieces under every medium known to man, spelling out a constant stream of lifetimes. There are works he wished he didn’t have, ones that were better off forgotten, and ones that he frequented so much that they took up a whole wall, exclaiming his love. </p><p>But despite it all, he wouldn’t change a thing about it. Because his Salon wouldn’t be complete without it all there. Even the darkest of shades create the most vibrant of pieces. </p><p>He shares it with the others, as best he can. They shoulder his burden effortlessly, when needed, hoisting the foundations of his mind high. A steady bedrock, for him to rest on, whenever he needs.</p><p>They’re there now, straightening the portraits, keeping the halls clear and tidy. Flanking him on all sides, guiding him. They’re a map for him, for when he gets lost in the chaos of his own mind. Because for as long as he’s lived, and as much as he’s seen, they’ve been a constant. They’ve always been there. </p><p>He thinks back to what Nicky tells him that night all those years ago. The memory is painted right in front of him. He could see the swath of black on the canvas, only shattered by the paleness of Nicky’s skin, the brightness of his eyes. </p><p>
  <em> “Whether or not I thought I wanted it, I knew I needed it. I will always be grateful for the strong hands that guided me and Joseph. I would not be who I am today without them.”  </em>
</p><p>“Even now, you’re still taking me to school,” Booker chuckles, shaking his head. “You still got it, old man.” </p><p>He imagines the shadowed face in the painting grin at him. </p><p>“Booker?” </p><p>Booker blinks and the museum is gone in a flash. He is outside their house in Madrid, watching the sunset. </p><p>Not the best he’d seen, but far from the worst. </p><p>He turns to see Nile poking her head out through the door. “Yes?” he asks. </p><p>“Andy’s back from the store,” she says with a roll of her eyes. </p><p>“Finally,” he sighs. “Joe gonna let us eat now?” </p><p>Nile gives him a thumbs up and Booker chuckles, following his younger sister inside. He had barely stepped inside when he was greeted by some familiar bickering. </p><p>“What the hell is this?” </p><p>“It’s rosemary, Joe, what the hell does it look like?” </p><p>Joe looks affronted, staring down at the jar in his hands. “This is <em> not </em>rosemary.” </p><p>Nile peers over Joe’s shoulder. “Did English change in the last few days? Because that absolutely says rosemary, Joe.” </p><p>“Heathens, the lot of you. Dried rosemary, this is <em> dried rosemary!” </em>he cries. </p><p>“Here we go,” Quynh sighs, from where she's curled in the breakfast nook, reading the latest thriller. </p><p>“What does it matter, Joe?” Andy asks, dropping a kiss on Quynh’s cheek as she slipped in the seat next to her. </p><p>Booker laughs before Joe can even answer, knowing the vitriol that will soon follow. “What does it matter?” he scoffs. “What does it matter, you ask? What do the clouds matter to the grass they feed, or the moon to the waves it tames?” </p><p>Andy rolls her eyes. “It’s a fucking herb, Joe.” </p><p>“A <em> dried </em>herb, Andy,” Joe hisses. “I cannot feed this swill to Nicolò!” </p><p>“Will he really notice?” Nile asks. </p><p>“He notices everything,” Booker answers with a grin. “In fact—”</p><p>“Joe?” Nicky asks from the other room. “What’s wrong?” </p><p>“Right on time,” Booker says to Nile, and she snickers into his shoulder. </p><p>“Don’t come in here, <em> hayati, </em>unless you’re planning on committing fratricide.” Joe turns back to Andy. “We need to get fresh rosemary.” </p><p>“No, you need to get over yourself.” </p><p>“Can’t we just not use any?” Nile asks. “I’m starving.” </p><p>“Then we might as well be eating paste!” Joe shouts, throwing his hands in the air. </p><p>Booker bites back a grin at his brother’s antics. Already, he can feel the memory begin to imprint in his mind, a fresh canvas already being created. </p><p>“Booker, please,” Joe says, turning to him. “Back me up. Surely you understand the crisis here.”</p><p>Booker pauses the painting in his head, and then he’s running through his gallery, following a long thread to a specific piece. “I don’t know, Joe,” he says, when he finds what he’s looking for. “I remember a certain someone using expired marinara sauce for our meal in Montenegro. <em> And liking it.”  </em></p><p>Joe squawks as Nicky steps into the kitchen, “Now that is something that cannot be forgiven,” he chuckles, butting his head gently against Joe’s. He grabs the dried herb from Joe’s hand and Nicky frowns; Booker rolls his eyes at the smug look Joe sends Andy. “You know what, maybe we should just order out,” Nicky says, heading over to the counter to root around for some take out menus. </p><p>Nile thumps her head against the kitchen table. “If only someone had suggested that <em> hours ago,” </em>she hisses. </p><p>Booker throws his head back and laughs, delighting in the new masterpiece displayed in his Salon, a crude abstract of dried rosemary.</p><p>It’s extraordinary.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Very very very special thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori">mellyflori</a> who listened to me rant and rave about this idea until I could get this straight. You're the very best decoding duck an author could ever ask for. </p><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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